


Brooklyn Syndrome

by lordelannette



Series: Brooklyn Syndrome [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dark Steve, Dark Steve Rogers, Doctor Steve Rogers, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Medication, Isolation, Locked In, M/M, Manipulation, Obsessive Steve Rogers, Ocd steve, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Slow Loss of Sanity, Stockholm Syndrome, Top Steve Rogers, Violence, Writer Bucky Barnes, kidnapped Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 110,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: Bucky's back was pressed against the cold floor and he stared through blurry eyes as Steve stood over him. He was trying to push himself as far away as he could, using his hands and bare feet to slide himself out from between Steve's legs but he couldn't find purchase against the wooden floor. Steve's legs were locked on both sides of his hips and Bucky couldn't move, couldn't get away, and the room was swimming before his eyes and he couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. All he could make out was the hazy figure of Steve towering over him and he lifted his arm to push uselessly at Steve's shin."P-please," Bucky whispered. His voice was weak, like him, and his jaw trembled as Steve reached down.Steve slid down onto the floor and effortlessly gathered him into his strong arms, cradling Bucky to his chest as he leaned against the wall. "Bucky," Steve breathed. One of his large hands slid gently into Bucky's hair, the other curving against his spine and pulling him even closer. "You're mine now, remember?"Steve's grip tightened then it all went black.





	1. Ache

Chapter 1

* * *

Steve

April 5, 2015

* * *

 

 

Steve is staring blankly at his computer screen, watching as his cursor blinks robotically at him. He’s been like this for some time now, sitting uselessly at his desk for so long that his coffee has turned cold. The black and white analog clock on his wall keeps ticking away and he knows that time is passing and that he should be doing the paperwork that has begun to pile up on his desk but he can’t find the energy to do so.

Because it never stops. It keeps coming onto him like a tidal wave splashing against the shores, trying to drown him on the spot. And it is, slowly but surely, it’s leaving him gasping for air and clawing at his throat.

The problem isn’t  _ work _ . Work he can do; work is something he  _ has  _ done for years and it is his only way of escaping everything on the  _ inside _ .

His work is what keeps him distracted. Or… or at least it had been.

He had been foolish enough to ignore the unscratchable itch that had been slowly getting stronger for the past few months. It had started as a dull ache within his chest cavity, hitting him deep when someone would speak to him or glance in his direction and he would feel a small flutter of  _ maybe this is it, maybe they’re the one--  _ but then he would  _ see  _ them and they were never right. Never.

He had tried his best to ignore the feelings within himself, but no matter how hard he tried to push them away, they were always  _ there _ , nagging at the back of his skull and whispering in his ears. And  _ now _ ... now it’s all he could think about-- the empty space at his side plaguing him because he knew it’s where someone belonged; someone special, someone  _ right _ .

Steve sighed to himself and frowned as the sound bounced off the empty white walls of his office. The clock kept ticking away without any consideration towards him, a cruel reminder that time was simply running out and didn’t give a damn how he was feeling. He let his gaze drop to his desk and eyed the sole picture frame of him and his ma when he was a child. Her smile was bright and she looked so happy with her arms around Steve’s small body and-- and he could never make himself look for too long because he knew what pain awaited her. Despite her smiling figure in the picture, Sarah Rogers would pass only three months after he turned twenty two and she would suffer from an excruciating form of cancer that would devour her alive and leave her so frail and weak that she couldn’t get out of her bed for the last six months of her life. So no, Steve could never look for too long.

He bypasses the frame and glances over the monitor and keyboard, disregards the stack of files that need his signature and the random paperweight that he can’t remember who gifted it to him. He thinks it was probably Sam or maybe Peggy, or perhaps even Sharon, but he can’t entirely remember and he doesn’t care enough to wrack his brain for it because it isn’t important.

But other than that, his desk is clean. Impersonal. Nothing holding the slightest importance that drives him forward. He has seen Sam’s desk with his handful of pictures of him and Riley-- their wedding, various vacation spot, backyard bbq’s-- and how they always look so happy to be with each other. He knows that his own office is a pitiful thing to see in comparison to the others but its not like he has things that he could put up even if he wanted to.

Because unlike Sam, and Peggy, and probably every other person on the planet, Steve has no one. He can’t take pictures with meaning because there is no one there to take them with. He can’t decorate his office with personal objects given as gifts because no one important has given him any. It’s a hard reality to face but he’s been fighting against it since before his ma died and not once has the pain from it gone away. He  _ hates  _ it.  

So. Damn. Much.

Steve closes his eyes as his pager suddenly vibrates to life. It’s loud and almost makes him flinch at the sudden intrusion. But he doesn’t because he’s become numb to everything after so long. The intrusion is almost welcomed because at least it gets him the chance to escape his headspace, even if only for a few minutes.

Steve heaves himself silently from his chair and walks to the door of his office. Afterall, he has a job to do.

Technically Steve is done for the day as soon as four thirty passes but he always pretends to stay after hours in order to get caught up on his work. It isn’t unusual to see him still in his office at eight in the evening and apart from Sam occasionally telling him to  _ go out and have some fun _ , the other workers turn a blind eye and just like to consider him a devoted work-a-holic. Which is a cruel form of irony if he would have any say of his own. 

Steve never bothers to correct them.

He works four days a week and always has Friday through Sunday off, so it’s nothing incredibly stressful. When he had first accepted the job as being one of the primary physicians at the hospital, he had known that the hours were more than flexible for having a life away from home. It was giving him the hours to spend on his partner and any future children that would possibly come into the equation. But here he is, at the ripening age of thirty two with no partner or children, so hours away from work are more  _ damaging  _ than beneficial.

The hours alone let him sit in silence at his kitchen table and pick absentmindedly at the food he prepares for himself. There are six chairs in total but apart from the one Steve sits in, they’ve never been used or moved. The sectional couches that are in his living room are large and designed for comfort but apart from the corner piece where Steve plants himself to watch documentaries, the pillows and cushions remain fluffed with unuse. His bed always stays half-made and when he rolls over to pat the space beside him, the sheets are always cold to the touch. Everything about the house reminds him just how much he has no one else.

So as he leaves work when the skies have turned dark and pulls up into the long driveway, he chooses to just sit there when he finally kills the engine. The radio is on but he isn’t listening to any of it and lets his head fall back onto the headrest, arms dead on his lap. He stares at the house that he grew up in and tries to envision his ma making peach cobbler in the kitchen but all he can envision is her bony hand reaching out for a cup of water that she can barely drink by herself. His eyes stray to the second floor window all the way to the left side of the house where her nightlight would remain lit all throughout the night but there is no faint glow anymore. It’s all darkness, not a light on in the inside or the outside of the house.

Steve keeps staring because it is all so lifeless. Just like him.  

He silently pleads that this can’t be it. It just can’t.

Steve swallows down the tightness in his throat and opens the door of his car. As he walks towards the house, he listens to the leaves crunching beneath his feet and the faint jingle as his keys clank together. The security light jolts to life as he approaches and stays bright as he slides the key into the lock. The light welcomes him home when no one else will.

* * *

Bucky

April 7, 2015

* * *

 

 

Bucky would never consider himself a miracle man, but climbing up three flights of stairs with two boxes shoved under his arms, his phone being held by his teeth, and the keys to his apartment dangling off of his fingers,  _ well _ , he knows it’s a nothing short of a miracle that he even got passed the first step.  

It takes him a few tries to get the key into the lock but when he finally manages to unlock the door, he pushes it open with the toe of his Doc Martens and shuffles inside. He wastes no time throwing the keys onto the counter and dropping the boxes next to them. With his hands finally free he gently pulls the phone from his mouth just as it begins to vibrate. He already knows who it is before his finger even slides across the screen to answer it.

“Hi mom,” he speaks into the phone, moving the device onto his shoulder so that his hands are free to start pulling things from the boxes. He hears Nat come in through the door and he nods towards the table so she can put the load down that she brought in. When Bucky sees that she somehow managed to carry four boxes in, he rolls his eyes in exasperation because of course she outdid him. Leave it to Nat to have the the personal mission of carrying more than him and making it look effortless in the process.

“You said you were going to call as soon as you arrived,” his mom began to say. “It’s past noon, Bucky.”

He quickly pulls his phone away to check the time and  _ huh _ , it’s already twelve forty-seven. He hadn’t noticed how much time had passed and mentally winces because he  _ knew  _ he should have called earlier. Now he would have to suffer from the wrath of his mother. Even being in separate states didn’t ease Bucky’s fears that somehow his mom could reach through the phone and pull his ear.

“I know, I know,” he mumbled. “But I literally just got home and it’s been so hectic trying to settle in.”

“It’s still past noon.”

Bucky sighed dramatically. “I know, mom. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I love you more than anything in the whole, wide world,” he finishes with a playful smile because he can practically see her eye roll through the screen. He hears the shout of his sister in the background  _ ‘hey _ !’ and he snorts at that because of course Becca is there listening to every word.

“Well, you are my favorite son so I guess that’s something, at least.” It’s been a lifelong joke between them all because Winifred Barnes only has two children; one son,  _ him _ , and one very meddlesome yet awesome daughter in the form of Becca. “Have you already gone furniture shopping?”

Her words bring Bucky back into reality and he quickly glances at the empty apartment surrounding him. He grimaces, “Uhhhhh, kinda?”

“Define kinda.”

“Well, I have a bed," Bucky pointed out. "And brand new sheets. And I bought a end table to hold my phone while it charges. So a general improvement from it being completely empty yesterday.”

“You said you were staying with Natasha and Clint yesterday.” 

“I  _ did _ ,” he emphasised. Bucky glances to the side as Nat holds up a whole box filled with nothing but copies of his last book. There’s at least a dozen and she raises a questionable brow in his direction.

“Egotistical much?” Nat smirks. He rolls his eyes and promptly ignores her snickering.

Bucky focuses back on the conversation with his mom and continues on, “--But I wanted to start getting the apartment ready.  _ And  _ there’s only so much pretending that I can’t hear them having sex in the other room that I can do. They’re crazy, mom. Absolute  _ animals _ .”

He hears Nat hiss a string of Russian profanities and he grins at her as she flicks him off.

“Sweetheart,” his mother’s voice rings in his ear. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“ _ Moommmm _ ,” he groans out. “I’m not jealous.” There’s a long hum of disbelief on the other end of the line and he purses his lips. “Okay, fine, maybe a little. Like a teeny, tiny bit.”

“Oh, son,” he can hear the sympathetic sigh that his mom does and it’s  _ one  _ thing to feel sorry for himself but it’s another thing entirely to have his mom feel for him. It’s like a stab directly to his heart for fuck’s sake. “You’re in New York now so I’m sure there will be plenty of fish up for grabs.”

He frowns at that. “But I don’t  _ like  _ fish.”

“ _ Men _ , Bucky,” his mom clarifies. “Strong, hunky pieces of meat that you can ride for hours. New York is bound to have a wider selection that Shelbyville, Indiana.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he mumbled. Throughout high school there was only one other guy who was known to go  _ that way _ and although the thought of having a high school romance was very appealing, the guy just wasn’t a person Bucky found himself attracted to. College had been a bit better and he had his short list of rendezvous adventures but none of them had been something to tie him down in the long run. Because unknown to popular belief, Bucky wasn’t the kind of guy to hit it and run. He wanted... _ things-- _ things that not every guy his age of twenty three wanted.

“He’s out there, Bucky. You just gotta find him. Or, maybe he’ll find you instead.”

Bucky snorted. If only it were that easy.

* * *

April 8, 2015

* * *

 

“We promised your mom that we would fill up your apartment,” Nat reminded him for the fifth time in the last hour. Apart from their shopping trip yesterday that gave Bucky his bedroom, he had the kitchen, dining room, living room, and office to still shop for. It’s like he scratched one thing off his list only for five more items to be added. The job felt like it was never ending. He almost curses himself for selling his past apartment as is instead of spending the couple extra grand just to rent a moving truck. Then again, he had wanted a fresh, brand new start and he had foolishly thought finding new furniture would be fun.

He had even been looking forward to the process but now? Dear  _ fuck  _ it was exhausting. He was almost tempted to hire someone to do it for him instead, but Nat kept insisting that if he wanted the apartment to be his, then  _ he  _ needed to be the one to bring it to life. She was adamant that it would be worth it in the end.

But looking at five couches that were all the same model just in different colors, made him want to pull out his very well-kept hair. The saleslady was talking about fabric choices and he couldn’t grasp what the hell she was talking about. He had told her numerous times that all he wanted was something soft and sturdy but apparently soft and sturdy wasn’t specific enough and it felt like they were going in loops of pick and choose. The couch options had started at over fifteen selections and he brought it down to five so at least he was making process. A very slow and agonizing process, but process nonetheless.  

“I am  _ trying  _ to fill up the apartment, hence the reason we are at a furniture shop,” he retorted, not taking his analyzing gaze off of the couches and fabric samples spread out evenly across the cushions. “I think I like either Midnight Blue or Charcoal,” Bucky bites on his lip. But then his gaze shifts to the third option that he had been eyeing and he groans, “But the Taupe is nice too.”

“Taupe can stain easily though,” she comments and leans down to snatch the fabric sample away, leaving the two darker ones there above the rest. Bucky is still biting on his lips when he reaches up to massage his temples. “Just pick between those two,” Nat orders.

“I can’t,” he huffs out, knowing very much how childish he sounds. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but in this case a really, really  _ big  _ toddler and a not so verbal tantrum.

Nat gives him a look and he barely resists the urge to cover all vulnerable areas that she could inflict damage upon. “And why the hell not?”

He drops his hands by his side and points towards the fabrics. “Because the Slate Gray looks nice too.”

Natasha groans as he crosses his arms. The endless cycle continues on and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying his damn well hardest to picture the couch in his living room. He prays that at this rate, he’ll have a furnished apartment in two months top.

“You owe me a coffee after this,” Nat says. And yeah, he could go for some caffeine. Perhaps then his decision-making ability could be put to its full force.

Or at least he hopes it will. He’s starting to get a bit desperate, to be honest.

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

He’s sitting straight in his stool as he listens to an old, greying woman complain about a rash that she has had for a few weeks. He’s also listening to her drone on about her new kitten that she absolutely adores because she’s never had one before. When he points out that there’s a huge possibility that she is having an allergic reaction towards said kitten, the woman is adamant that  _ “Oh no, young man. The kitten is the sweetest little thing.” _

If they would have told him in Med School that little old ladies have all the answers to medical problems, then he might not have gone through the hassle of getting his medical degree to help people that refuse to be helped. So instead of insisting that the woman allow them to do a skin prick test, he prescribes her an antihistamine cream that he tells her to put on as soon as the itching becomes bothersome.  

She calls him sunny as he wishes her a good day and when Nurse Sharon comes in to process the woman, Steve is quick to leave the room. He rarely ever interacts with his patients on a personal level because he’s never found it professional so he usually leaves it to the nurses to make sure things run smoothly. Because really, it’s the nurses that run the place. Steve only goes where he’s needed, giving his examinations on more tricky evaluations and signing off on prescriptions.

Steve passes by a few of the nurses who nod towards him in greeting and he gives them a nod back but that’s it. It’s the usual silent routine until--

“Saw that you’re already done for the day,” Sam says as he slides up to him, his hand clasping Steve’s shoulder. “Aren’t you a lucky one.”

Steve grins. “Depends on how you define lucky. I still have a bunch of paperwork to catch up on. Figured I stay and get it all done.”

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “Man, I don’t get how you do it. You are literally always here. Don’t you get tired of seeing our ugly mugs?” he laughs out.

Steve tries to laugh too but it comes out more like a huff of empty air than anything else. He doesn’t need Sam to point out how sad his life is, he already knows.

“And didn’t you work through your lunch break?” Sam asks further. It’s like digging the knife just a bit deeper.

“I ate,” Steve shrugged. “Brought my own lunch.”

Sam stops them in the hallway that holds the private offices. His hand is clasped on Steve’s shoulder still and he has an expression in his brown eyes that looks really fucking close to pity.  “No, Steve,” he says. “You need to get out of this building. Go get a coffee or something and then go  _ home  _ and enjoy a nice quiet night. Or better yet, go to a club, meet some people, get someone’s number.”

Steve looks down at his feet, bristling at the thought. Going to a club to find someone has passed through his thoughts before but it’s too loud and there’s no intimacy in having drunk bodies trip into you at all hours or them shouting at whatever song is playing. A club is nice but… it’s just not him and he’s more uncomfortable than he would be willing to admit. Even if he were to go, he isn’t the type of person to bound right up to a person and get their number. It’s all-- no. He’s more than eager to pass.

“I think I’m a bit too old to go to a club,” he tries instead. The words are completely besides the point but Sam won’t know that.

“Steve,” Sam says with an exaggerated huff. “You aren’t even forty. Go.”

Steve rubs at the back of his neck, sighing. “I just… I think I’m gonna head home and catch up on some sleep.”

Sam deflates a bit and releases his hold on Steve’s shoulder. “Alright,” he answers after a short moment. “That’s probably a good idea since we all know how much you work. You’ll have a nice long weekend too, considering it’s not even one thirty yet.”

Steve nods with a forced smile on his face, trying to look as happy as Sam is trying to make him appear. It’s almost comical in how easy it is now, after all these years of pretending.

“I know,” he answers. Steve watches as Sam opens his mouth as if to say something else but his pager starts buzzing at his waist and the man glances down. Whatever flashes across the screen has Sam’s brows burrowing and when he looks back up he has an apologetic expression on his face.

“I’m needed in exam room four. Not everyone gets half-days off,” Sam gives him a playful grin. He’s already starting to walk away from Steve because duty calls and they can’t keep patients waiting longer than they already have to. Sam gives him a mock salute and says a quick parting before he starts to shuffle down the hall.

Steve inclines his head as his friend walks away and is just about to turn towards his office when Sam suddenly shouts out, “And go get that damn coffee already!”

This time, the smile on Steve’s face isn’t forced. He grins over at Sam who is walking backwards with a smirk headed straight in Steve’s direction. “Okay!” Steve shouts back. It’s a good thing they’re in the private section of the hospital wing otherwise the patients would be staring at them in outrage. “Wanna picture when I get there?”

“Yes please!” With that, Sam turns back around and disappears around the corner as Steve shakes his head to himself. Although he knows there’s nothing wrong with his coffee pot at home, the thought of going to the coffee shop around the corner actually is a bit pleasing and if he  _ has  _ to go get a drink, then that’s where he’ll go. He has no choice now. If he doesn’t go, he’ll never hear the end of it. Even though Sam is technically his only friend, there is still only so much that Steve can take.

So coffee it is.

* * *

He does not fidget; never has and probably never would. Instead, he stands tall and still, with his hands shoved into his pockets as the other customers move around him. He’s only been in line for a few minutes but it’s been long enough to see a handful of customers place their orders and dally around the shop with their friends. Apart from one blonde woman typing at her laptop, everyone else is talking with one another, smiling and laughing at conversations that Steve cannot hear. 

He’s a bit uncomfortable standing there alone and he keeps pleading for the line to move faster so he can grab his coffee and book it out the doors. But there is at least four more customers in front of him so he has to wait.

And wait.

And wait some more. Honestly, the concoctions that some people can come up with blows his damn mind. Why can’t there be more people like him that prefer it black and untouched, a quick poor from the pot and no ridiculous sugary shit?  

He glances down at his watch as another customer gets their drink and leaves. It’s been exactly eight minutes since he stepped in line and although it’s nowhere near the time he was expecting (quick hop in and out), he forces himself to not care. He’s  _ supposed  _ to get out. Somewhere that’s not home nor the hospital so Steve keeps standing in line with his elbows tucked into his sides and eyes darting from one person to the next. He catches sight of a young couple; a male and female leaned in close in front of the window and looking at each other as if no one else in the world exists. Steve watches them closely with his lips parted softly and he lets his gaze linger on their expressions and--

Steve forces his head forward when it becomes too much. The dull ache hits him hard in the chest and he reaches up to try to rub the pain away. He knows it won’t work (because it never works) so he hugs his arms in close to his sides and pretend that he can keep himself together.

He’s looking down at his feet when the second customer leaves with their coffee. He figures that he’ll probably only be in line for another five minutes at tops but the desperation to leave is beginning to seem more appealing than staying any longer.

Steve sighs to himself because he knows he’s made up his mind and it most certainly does  _ not  _ involve getting coffee from this shop. He begins to turn his foot to take his next step out of line when suddenly he hears a voice that stops him in his tracks.

Because it’s rich and masculine and makes the small hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand on edge. The voice shoots straight through Steve’s body and settles in the pit of his stomach as warmth envelops him whole. He can feel the goosebumps shoot up his arms and he doesn’t hesitate to peak over his shoulder to find the person who that voice belongs to.

It doesn’t take him long at all. His eyes are immediately drawn to a man a few customer’s behind him. When Steve sees him, he feels the breath leave his lungs in one sharp pull and he feels  _ entranced _ , almost as if it were impossible to look away.

Because he  _ can’t  _ look away.

The man is undeniably beautiful, with dark chestnut locks reaching his shoulders and the slightest shadow of stubble along his jaw. His face is all angles, sharp and smooth, and Steve’s fingers ache to run across the man’s flesh. The brunet looks young too, younger than Steve, and when a smile stretches across his handsome face, Steve swears he forgets how to breathe.  

It’s only when Steve follows the young man’s gaze that he crumples. His shoulders drop down and a soundless sigh heaves from his body as he looks on in disappointment. There, not even a foot away from the young man is a redheaded woman, who Steve would say is quite a looker herself if her beauty wasn’t overshadowed by the man at her side.

Steve’s gaze narrows as he considers them. They stand a short distance apart and their arms are at each of their sides, not touching one another like usual couples do. Steve feels relief pool over him.

“ _ Next _ .”

Steve jolts forward when he realizes that the barista had been trying and failing to capture his attention. He rushes to the counter and shoots out his order as fast as he can, sliding a five dollar bill forward. He waves off the change and taps his fingers against his leg as he tracks the barista’s movements, silently urging them to hurry.

He has all of his focus on the soft lull of the man’s voice and he wants  _ more  _ of it, wants it  _ closer  _ to him, wants it  _ directed  _ at him.

The worker hands him his cup and the very second the sleeve brushes against his fingers, Steve steps away and throws himself into the nearest booth, facing the counter so that he can keep his eyes on the young man. From his seat, he can hear the faint drift of their conversation.

“How about a double date?” the redhead asks with a smile of bemusement. Steve clenches his jaw at the thought of someone else getting the privilege to take the young man out, someone  _ unworthy  _ of getting the brunet’s attention-- someone that’s not Steve. He gets a flash of strangers touching the young man, of lips brushing against that beautiful skin, and Steve’s grip tightens around his cup.  

“I think it would be for everyone’s benefit,” the girl continues. “Mix things up a bit.”

The young man rolls his eyes, shaking his head and Steve watches as the brown strands sway against his face. What Steve wouldn’t give to run his fingers through that hair.

“If I find a guy, trust me when I say the very  _ last  _ thing I would want to do is bring him around you or Clint,” the young man grins. “I want to  _ keep  _ a relationship, not end one.”

Steve takes a drink from his too-hot coffee and the burn down his throat and warmth in his gut makes him feel  _ alive _ . His heart is beating strongly in his chest, with purpose, and he doesn’t look away from the young man. Not once.

“Jesus, Bucky--” Steve perks up at the redhead’s words because now he has a  _ name  _ to go with that face. He whispers it to himself, over and over and over--  _ Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky _ \-- as he hides his mouth behind the cup at his lips. He shivers at the way it rolls of his tongue. “-- what if you didn’t need a relationship. What if it was a one time thing?”

The brunet scowls at her. “We’ve been over this before, Nat.”

“And we’ve also been over how your standards are way too damn high.”

“Well at least  _ I  _ have standards,” Bucky shoots back.

The redhead--  _ Nat _ , Steve corrects himself-- scoffs. “Well at least  _ I  _ have a good fuck on a nightly basis.”

Bucky laughs at that. The noise is soft and it tickles against Steve’s eardrums. He briefly closes his eyes to relish in the sound. It does tantalizing things to his insides, echoing against his skull and makes Steve think of lazy evenings on the couch, bundled together beneath blankets and arms wrapped around one another, skin on skin, as private jokes get whispered between them. He can see himself holding Bucky close, getting lost in wandering touches and wet kisses, hands sliding along smooth flesh and fingers getting tangled in Bucky’s hair.

“You’ve also been married for eight months,” Bucky points out. “If I were married, I  _ too  _ would be having good fucks on a nightly basis,” he says with a chuckle.

Steve swallows heavily.

He keeps peering at them from over his cup and laps up their every word. Steve waits as their turn comes up at the counter and he waits until they each get their coffee and he waits as they leave the shop. He watches as they pass by the windows at the front of the store and he gives them exactly ten seconds before he shoots up from his spot and tracks their moves from a distance. Steve doesn’t care that he’s leaving his car behind nor does he care about how spontaneous he is being. All he knows is that he can’t let them get out of his sight. He can’t let  _ Bucky  _ get away.

Steve follows them for a few blocks and stays across the street when they venture into an apartment complex. He sits down on a nearby bench and sets his gaze on the brick building where Bucky is somewhere inside.

Steve sits for an hour, then another, until he catches sight of Nat walking back out. His shoulders sag in relief because that means the building is where Bucky lives and not the redhead. Although he knows that even if it had been Bucky to leave the building, he wouldn’t have left until he knew exactly where Bucky stayed. He wouldn’t dare go home without knowing he could find the brunet again. The thought of not seeing him again is too painful to handle and it  _ terrifies  _ Steve, sends a vile stream of panic running through his veins.

So he stays sitting on that bench and ducks his head as the redheaded woman passes him. He sits there for another string full of minutes staring up at that building and ignores his phone when it vibrates in his pocket. The phone is not important. Not when Steve can have someone like Bucky. 

Steve  _ wants  _ him; more than anything he has ever laid his eyes upon before.  _ Oh how he wants _ . Badly, like a burning flame churning beneath the layers of his skin, pulling his muscles tight and setting his blood on fire. The desire hits him harder than anything he has ever experienced. He can feel it consume him more and more by the second and all he can think about is  _ Bucky, Bucky, Bucky _ . Steve whispers the name to himself, memorizing how the syllables twist and flow by the power of his voice and he tries to imagine the words being hushed between their lips during the night, close enough that they could breathe as one, in and out, in and out. It’s a vision that Steve has had for almost an entire decade but the face and body had always been blurred, too vague and cloudy to make out. But  _ now _ …

Now that blur has become clear. That blur is now Bucky, in high definition, and Steve _needs_ him. 

 


	2. Vial

* * *

Steve

April 23, 2015

* * *

 

_ Click. _

_ Click. Click. Click. _

_ Click _ .

Steve pulls the Nikon camera away from his face and looks across the park. It’s a sunny day with the tell-tale signs of a warm summer on the brink. There’s a handful of people walking around; a boy and his dog playing frisbee not to far to Steve’s right, and an elder couple feeding the pigeons to his left. But he isn’t paying attention to any of them. Instead, his gaze is sharp on the figure that is sitting on a bench beneath a large oak tree a few dozen yards away. He stares, and absorbs as much as his unaided eyesight can see.

Bucky is alone today, sipping delicately from a coffee cup that Steve had watched him get almost an hour ago. Since then, Bucky has had his headphones in and absentmindedly switches his gaze from his phone to the scenery surrounding them, smiling gently as the individuals that pass him nod their heads in greetings. Steve has been carefully concealing himself behind a tree that is a fair distance away and brings his camera up every time he sees a new angle that shows him something new-- a sharper feature of Bucky’s jawline, or a glimpse of how Bucky’s eyes soften as he glances at his phone and a smile curves at his sinful lips.

Steve zooms in the lens. Let’s it focus on Bucky’s face.  _ Click. _  He zooms the lens even further as Bucky puts his coffee to his lips.  _ Click. Click.  _ Steve stares, breathlessly, when Bucky swallows--  _ Click _ \-- and watches through the glass lens as the muscles in Bucky’s throat clench softly as the liquid flows into him.  _ Click. Click. Click. _

Steve exhales soundlessly and he darts out his tongue to lip his licks. Every movement that Bucky makes, Steve is quick to take advantage and his fingers automatically press down onto the silver button on the top of the camera to capture that moment in time forever.

_ Click. _

_ Click. Click. Click. _

_ Click. _

Steve only moves once Bucky does. He keeps his distance but he’s always close. So very close.  

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Later that night, Steve examines each picture as it slides from the printing tray. He lets his fingers brush against the smooth waxy surface of each print, his pale digits more gentler than he’s ever been before. The pad of his thumb traces over Bucky’s face and figure, touching the unsuspecting brunet through the photo with the softness only of a lover’s touch.

When the last photo is done, Steve gathers all the new prints in his hands and shuffles through them as he turns away from his computer and printer. He steps into the middle of his office room and stares in fascination at one picture in particular; of Bucky staring at something in the distance, his piercing grey-blue gaze trained softly on something out of the frame and the slightest curl of a smile on his pink lips. It’s one of the best headshots that Steve has taken of the brunet and he has to admit that he’s starting to get the hang of his newfound picture-taking hobby. It’d taken him a couple of weeks but the pictures are starting to come out more crisp, more defined and real enough that Steve can fool himself into thinking the real Bucky is standing right in front of him.

That Bucky is standing in this very room,  _ with  _ Steve. Because the room is filled with Bucky.

Literally.

Steve pulls his attention from the print held delicately in his hands and he looks up, letting his gaze skim the once pale blue walls that are now covered in pictures, not a slither of the paint visible any longer. He moves in a slow circle, letting his gaze dart back and forth, up and down, to see every shot that he’s taken in one short month’s period. There’s multiple days worth of Bucky walking down the sidewalks, some of him talking with the redheaded woman, some taken of Bucky, Nat, and a blonde man with a hearing aid resting behind his ear as they joined together at various restaurants, and even a few trips to the movie theater as a three-person party. Most of the shots are of Bucky by himself; entering and exiting his apartment, strolling down to the park, walking to coffee shops and to take-out restaurants, and the million-dollar shots-- also Steve’s  _ absolute  _ favorites-- of Bucky standing in the window of his apartment, shirtless, hair tousled, and a steaming cup of something hot in his hands as he gazes out onto the busy Brooklyn morning streets. Steve hardly ever captures Nat or the blonde man in his pictures but if and when he does, then he eagerly cuts them out of the pictures before taping the prints up onto the wall, joining the countless others.

Steve grabs the tape from his desk and starts assembling the newest collection of photographs onto his wall. He’s already covered one full wall, which is almost mind blowing to him. When he had started… all of  _ this _ , he had been sure that one or two pictures would have sated his need, but once he had those few, he needed  _ more.  _ And more and more and more until-- until he had moved onto the next wall and now that he has over half of the room done, it just feels empty to see the rest of the walls shine with that blue paint. He doesn’t care that he had to remove two award plaques he’s received from the hospital or even that he had to take down his painting of the Brooklyn Bridge that he had done his freshman year in college. He doesn’t care about that stuff because it’s all so pointless when there’s a photograph of Bucky resting beside it. It all becomes meaningless in comparison to the young man.

So it doesn’t bother him when he tapes up the new stack. It’s almost muscle memory now when his fingers pluck the tape away from the roll, letting his skin dig into the small metal spikes as he pulls the clear adhesive away. Steve blinks as he puts each picture up, watching as the blue paint fades away piece by piece and Bucky comes to life just a bit more.  

Steve pauses, however, when he gets to the last picture in his hands. It’s the headshot of Bucky. His fingers hover over the picture and instead of letting it join the others on the wall, Steve pulls it to his chest and turns, taking it away with him to his bedroom across the hall.

He places the photograph on top of the covers as he gets dressed for bed and tilts his head in consideration at the image of Bucky’s picture in his bed. It does strange things to his insides that he can’t begin to understand.

When he goes to lay down, it’s silent but he doesn’t mind as much as he used to because he doesn’t feel as  _ alone  _ as he used to. With his lamp turned on, Steve stares at the picture for so long that even when he closes his eyes all he can see is Bucky.

* * *

May 8, 2015

* * *

 

“Alright, spill.”

Steve looked up from the paperwork in front of him, his ballpoint pen stilling its movements, and he saw Sam standing in the doorway of his office with a grin plastered across his face. Steve raised a brow in confusion.

Sam pushed off the door and stepped further into the room. He had the decency to close the door behind him. “C’mon man,” Sam pushed. “You can tell me.”

Steve blinked at him, feeling his mouth go dry. He could feel his heart jackhammering inside his chest in a sharp pang of paranoia and he wanted to scream in frustration because he had thought that he had been  _ so careful.  _ He wasn’t ready to give Bucky up.  _ No _ . No. No.

He forced himself to give Sam an even look, willing himself to stay as calm as he could. “I don’t understand,” he answered. His voice may have wavered a bit but if Sam noted, he didn’t say anything. Not verbally at least.

Instead, somehow that grin on Sam’s face widened even further. His brown eyes had a gleam that Steve knew much too well.

Sam threw himself in the chair that was positioned in front of Steve’s desk. It was a thick leather chair, and was used for when patients were invited into his office but Steve never allowed anyone inside so apart from Sam and the few times Peggy came in, no one ever used it.

Steve looked at Sam as the man slouched and made himself comfortable. “Well, let me explain then,” Sam inclined his head. He raised his hand and held up his pointer finger. “ _ First,  _ you get here exactly when your shift starts. Nine o’clock sharp every morning. You don’t come in early anymore like you used too.  _ Second-- _ ” His middle finger stood up to join the other “--You leave on each of your lunch breaks now  _ and  _ you stay out for the entire two hour bracket. But most importantly Steve, you don’t stay a minute after your last appointment.” His gives Steve a look that basically says  _ don’t bullshit me _ , with dark brows raised high on his forehead.

Steve glanced away from his friend. His grip was tight around the pen in his hand.  “What do you want me to say Sam?” He felt exasperated, stuck between a rock and a hard place. He didn’t want to lie to Sam, didn’t enjoy it either, but he wasn’t going to give Bucky away.

“I just want you to tell me the truth,” Sam said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Clearly something-- or  _ someone--  _ is consuming your time, Steve. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots, y’know.”

Steve looked back towards Sam. He eyed the man warily because what Sam was asking for… what Sam wanted to  _ know _ ...

“I…” Steve swallowed heavily. There was one voice yelling at him to  _ shut up, shut up, shut up-- Bucky is mine, mine, mine--  _ but there was another that was telling him he could talk about it. He didn’t have to give the details, didn’t have to give him the most important parts but talking about emotions and feelings were  _ important  _ too. There were entire professions based around things like that because it was bad to keep it all bottled up like Steve had been doing for so long. So, so long.

He looked at Sam and sighed softly, like a tired breath of relief that had been waiting for a moment like this for centuries. “I found someone,” he confessed. The second the words left his mouth, his body sagged in undescribable relief because just how long had he been desperate to say those three little words? It felt… it felt fucking  _ good _ . To say it outloud. To say it to another person so that it no longer remained a secret that only he knew. He wanted others to know, he wanted to shout it from the damn rooftops. Because he had  _ found someone _ . Someone real and whole and someone just for him.

“I found someone,” he repeated, letting his voice get louder than probably necessary but he didn’t care and when he glanced at Sam, it seemed that his friend didn’t either. Sam was smiling at him and Steve could physically see the happiness bouncing off of him and seeping straight into Steve.

“Well,” Sam spoke after a short moment of blissful silence. “It’s about goddamn time.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth curled upwards as he nodded towards his friend. “Ain’t that the truth.”

* * *

Bucky

May 17, 2015

* * *

 

Bucky, for one, had never been a person in favor of deadlines. They intimidate the living shit out of him and he was probably the world’s biggest procrastinator when it came to things he needed to get done but the truth was, he was stuck. He wasn’t purposefully prolonging his work, it was just that it wasn’t coming to him like it usually did. A cruel and downright frustrating sensation of writer’s block had been plaguing him for weeks and left him glaring at the screen of his laptop for the last half hour trying and failing to find the perfect ending for his latest chapter.

He sat there thinking and thinking, then re-thinking and typing away only to delete the words not even a second later. “Fucking shit,” he mumbled beneath his breath. “The shittiest writer on the face of the fucking planet.”

Which, was a lie. He knew he was good, not enough to brag about it on the streets but good enough that he got recognized a few times out of the months by people he passed by in public and fairly regularly in bookshops by people who were fans of his works. And it was  _ those  _ fans that were so persistent in getting the next novel in his  _ Winter Soldier  _ series. Or, better known as the half-finished pile of garbage that he had been staring at for far too fucking long.

Bucky pushed himself away from his desk with a groan and leaned his head back to settle against the top of the chair. He brought up his left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily to the empty space around him.

He almost wanted to say fuck it all and scrap the damn thing. Instead of being an author who wrote a new book every two years, maybe he could be someone like George R.R Martin who published a new book to his series every decade. It’s not like that man’s fan base minded, so why couldn’t Bucky do that too? Technically no one was demanding that he have his next book out by a certain time, but he had told his publicist that his new novel would be out by December. It was  _ May _ . He still had around six months left but he still had yet to finish the novel, have it edited, have its cover finalized,  _ and  _ have its release date finalized by his publisher. Usually the last few steps took at least a month in a half so Bucky was starting to get a bit antsy about the whole thing. Like, way too fucking antsy.

It didn’t help that he had over a dozen email alerts from Pierce, his publicist, that his computer oh-so-thankfully reminded him of every ten minutes. Or perhaps even the handful of unread voicemails that he absolutely refused to click on. It had gotten to the point where Pierce was calling twice, sometimes three times a day so Bucky was more than eager to leave his phone laying on his bed and put on silence. At least then he could control one problem at a time. 

Bucky groaned again and brought his head back up, scowling at the computer screen. He wished he could have a superpower that he could snap his fingers and the whole damn thing would write itself. Now wouldn’t  _ that  _ be something? Screw Superman and The Hulk. Magic writing was where it was really at. Maybe he should get the idea patented.  

He snorted at the idea because what sorry soul would read something like that for entertainment? Then, Bucky frowned because not only was he talking to himself but now he was laughing at his own jokes. Maybe  _ he  _ was the sorry soul.

Bucky didn’t get long to think about that particular detail because suddenly his laptop was chiming to life. A blue skype bubble popped up on his screen with an embarrassing picture of Becca from her middle school days in the middle. He accepted the call quickly, relieved for the distraction, and grinned as his sister came into view.

“I’ve called you three times, asshole.” Becca glared into her camera, which was also the equivalence of glaring right at him.

Bucky scoffed. “Well hello to you too, my dear baby sister.”

“Are you wasting away at your computer again?”

“ _ Wasting away _ is a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Bucky cocked his head to the side. “Or are you forgetting that this is technically my job?”

“You don’t have a job,” Becca pointed out. “You haven’t had a job since that poor attempt of working at the lake resort that summer of your sophomore year of high school.”

Bucky cringed. That had been an utter shit show. With those stupid white collar shirts and those stupid matching mid thigh shorts that showed off his deliciously long and toned legs but left him downright on display for rich older women and their younger daughters. It still mortified him how many of them tried to hit on him and their looks of extreme disappointment when he looked them in the eyes and flat out told them,  _ ‘sorry, i’m gay _ .’ If he ever heard the words  _ what a waste _ muttered towards him again, it would be too fucking soon.

“Why do you always have to bring that up?” Bucky gave her a face.

Becca laughed, “Because I can. I’m your sister, Bucky. I’m  _ supposed  _ to make your life miserable, remember?”  

“And you have been,” Bucky agreed. He reclined in his chair and picked up his cup of iced cola, swishing his thumb through the cold condensation and making patterns in the pebbled dew. “Very much so, for the past twenty one years of my life. I cherish those short two years of being an only child.”

“Ha. Ha,” Becca deadpanned. But then she slouched over and propped her elbows up on her desk and rested her head against them. “So how’s the new life in Brooklyn? Ready to come back yet?” 

Bucky frowned slightly. One of the hardest days of his life had been having to sit down his mom and sister and tell them that he planned on leaving them. It had been emotional, tears had been shed, but they both understood in the end. Moving closer to his audience and publisher would give him more coverage. It was a career based move. It had also been a miracle that his best friend from college had moved there a couple years prior to him. Nat had taken him under her wing, like he knew she would, and he appreciated her and Clint more than anything. Of course there were days when he longed to be back home, sitting on the couch with Becca and his mom and watching some crappy movie on Netflix or Hulu, but slowly and surely, Brooklyn was treating him well. He liked it here even when sometimes the traffic could be downright abysmal and sometimes the people were a bit loud and boisterous for his liking but he was getting used to it.

“It’s… It’s pretty good to be honest,” Bucky replied, being honest because he would never lie to Becca like that. “The neighbors are nice. There’s an middle aged couple who brought me homemade cookies the other day. Bruce and Betty, they’re pretty cool. And apparently they’re both really smart. Both doctors at some research facility nearby. Then Mr. Lee is an older man who always calls me Buck-oo and has pictures with all these celebrities that he’s always showing me. I swear, everytime I see him, he has a new one.  ”

“Are celebrities, like, walking down the streets over there of something?” Becca raised a brow. “Because I swear to god Bucky, if you ever see Brad Pitt--”

“I sincerely doubt Brad Pitt will be walking around in Brooklyn.”

“ _ Still _ ,” Becca insisted. “You better get a picture. And an autograph. And a voice recording of him saying, ‘I love you Becca. Will you marry me?’”

“That seems oddly specific.”

Becca’s eyes narrowed. “Like  _ you  _ are one to judge. Remember when you wanted us to take a family vacation to England so you could track down Jude Law?”

Bucky snorted, barely managing not to shoot his cola through his nose. He shook his head slowly, “Touche.”

“So besides Mr. Lee, how are the rest of the people there?” Becca peers up at him through the bangs covering her forehead. “Any weirdos? You know the crime rate in New York is like ten times worse than here?”

“Every place has it’s weirdos,” Bucky smirked. “I mean, you’re exhibit A.”

“Bucky, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Becca sighed heavily. “Mom… Mom doesn’t like to admit it, but she’s scared for you. Like, all the time. She actually even set up a Brooklyn alert system on her phone that sends her news updates for the local area. Every time she gets one, she’s literally already picking up the phone and dialing your number.”

Bucky winced and suddenly felt horrible for not checking his phone for hours. The last thing he wanted to do was send his mom in a frenzy. He’s always hated those people that left home and left their relatives up in the wind. But here he was, now. It was hard to remember that life was a bit fast paced at times and that sometimes it was so easy to forget to call one person back, not remembering until days or weeks later.

“Sorry,” he spoke. “I didn’t mean… I’ll call mom as soon as we’re done. I’ll start carrying my phone too. It was just that Pierce--”

“Won’t stop harassing you?” Becca rolled her eyes. “I know. He called me yesterday and asked if I had had contact with you yet. He even called mom too. Did you find the one publicist from hell, Bucky?”

“Sometimes it seems like it,” Bucky nodded. “He just wants his paycheck faster. The quicker the new book comes out, then the more royalties I get, which gets puts into his bank account based on the percentages. Even without the new book out yet, he’s making five figures a month from me alone. And you know how sales boom with the release of a new book.”

“I’m sorry--,” Becca interrupted him with a smirk, “--all I heard was something about you buying me a new car.”

“I already bought you a car. I’m thinking we all go on a month long vacation once I finally finish this damn book. I’m thinking... maybe England?” he grinned at her. Becca tossed her head back and laughed.

“Well, you have to finish the book before you start planning a celebratory vacation,” she pointed out. “So I’m going to say goodbye so you can get back to writing that lovely book of yours and the faster you can take me to Cabo.”

He scrunched his nose. “Cabo?” he repeated.

Becca rolled her eyes. “Yes, Cabo. White sands, crystal blue waters. The chance to get gorgeously tanned. Do I really need to go on?” She watched him through the computer and gave him a look as if Cabo was the most obvious answer to all of their problems. Maybe it was. At this point, Bucky just didn’t know. She didn’t give him the chance to argue anyways. “So you finish the book and I’ll order my swimsuit.”

“How generous,” Bucky let his voice drip with sarcasm. But really, he didn’t give a flying fuck where they went as long as  _ away  _ was their destination. They could find a wood cabin in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere and he would be happy. Although the more he thought about it, it seemed really nice to get the chance to lounge on the beach with a margarita in hand as he relaxed and had no worries at all. 

God this damn book needed to get finished.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” his sister nodded her head for him. “Make sure you lock your doors and stay safe. And don’t do stupid shit, okay?” Becca shouted at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes at that. Did she forget that she was his little sister and he was a grown ass man that could very much take care of himself? The thought was sweet but completely unnecessary.  “Whatever you say, mom,” he teased her.

“Don’t  _ mom  _ me, Bucky. I’m serious. New York isn’t Indiana. You need to be careful,” she stressed.

“I will,” Bucky promised, making sure he sounded sincere enough that she believed him. He didn’t want them stressing about him at every minute of the day so he wanted them to know that he was being careful, because he was. He wasn’t stupid and he most certainly valued his damn life. “The same goes to you too, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I still carry that taser and pepper spray with me at all times. I even sleep with one of the kitchen knives in the table by my bed now,” she gave him a proud grin. “You should take tips!”

He hummed in thought. “Yeah, no.”

“At least  _ think  _ about it.”

“I have a book to write, remember?” he tried instead, hoping to get out of her insistence of walking around armed. It’s not like he carried a purse like she did. The image of him carrying a taser around in the waistband of his pants was hilarious as hell, even the bottle of pepper spray tucked into his boots was enough to give him a quick chuckle.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed. Becca looked at him with a soft gaze and she smiled gently, “I love you, big brother.”

“Love you too, little sister. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” Bucky watched as she nodded. “Bye, Becs.”

“Bye Bucky. And go get your phone!” she shouted.

“I will as long as you order me a swimsuit,” he threw back at her.

“Deal,” she replied, in a heartbeat. “I’ll find the tightest speedo for you, don’t worry.” She ended the call before he could do anything more than snort. When the skype call ended and closed off of his screen, he was once again greeted by the half blank pages of his open document.

If he almost chunked the laptop at his wall not five minutes later, well, that was his business and his business alone.

Hell, make it a two month vacation.

* * *

Steve

May 21, 2015

* * *

 

Steve entered  _ Barton Supplies  _ hardware store with something close to hesitation. It has been years since he’s stepped foot in a place like this but he’s a man on a mission and nothing is going to stop him from getting it done. Besides, he’s already placed his order in and he’s already gotten the call that the order is ready, so he isn’t planning on spending much time here. Not when he has so much to do back at home. But in order to  _ do  _ that work, he has to get his order first.

“Hello, sir,” a young, brown-headed woman beamed up at him as he stepped up to one of the counters. She’s smacking on a piece of bubble gum as she talks in between. “Anything I can help you with today?”

Steve glances at her name tag, reading  _ Darcy _ , before nodding his head, “Yes, I put in an order for a few windows. Got a phone call about an hour ago that they’re ready for pickup.”

“Okay, cool,” Darcy drummed her fingers against the counter. “I just have to go get Clint, the owner, since he’s in charge of all that stuff. Should take about two seconds.”

Before Steve can say anything, the young woman is gliding from behind the counter top, leaving Steve standing there with his hands shoved inside his pockets and turning his head from side to side to look around the shop. It’s quite large and pretty well stocked, in his opinion. There’s a strong scent of lumbar and metal and there’s a few handful of people scattered throughout the aisles. From what he can see, it seems that the shop is packed with everyday needs; from light bulbs to hundreds of different types of nails and screws, to collections of ceiling fans and doors, there’s even an entire four rows designated for high-powered tools. It seems like a one-stop-shop for any carpenter or someone just wanting to put some remodeling work into play.

“Steve Rogers?” a voice says and Steve turns back towards the counter, straightening up at once. But when his eyes land on the person speaking, his lips part in surprise, a downright shock that shoots through him like a beam of electricity. Because that man standing in front of him is the  _ same  _ blonde man that Bucky spends his time with. That man is the one that is in a relationship with Nat, and the same man that Bucky goes to their house three times out of the week. This man knows Bucky, personally; has physically talked and touched Bucky.

Steve swallowed thickly at the thought, feeling the sharp jab in his stomach. Of all the people, it has to be this man? It’s almost like a sick joke is getting performed before his very eyes. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

Clint grinned at him and lets out a low whistle as he jabs a thumb behind him. Steve follows the movement and sees a large, tightly packaged pile on a wheelable flat cart.  _ The windows _ , he realizes.

“Some pretty heavy stuff you ordered. Shatterproof. Bulletproof. Double-paned glass. Are you one of those doomsday preppers or just really paranoid?” Clint asks with an amused grin.

“I… I, uh, just had a break in,” Steve answered, his fingers fidgeting inside his pockets. “Wanted to take more precaution.”

Clint’s brows rise at that. “That sucks, dude. You live in the city or are you on the outskirts?”

“Outskirts,” he said. Steve scratched at the skin by his fingernails. “Far outskirts, really. My closest neighbor is three miles down the road.”

“Wow. My closest neighbor is like ten feet from my front door,” Clint laughs out.

Steve pretends to find that bemusing, cracking a thin smile at the blonde but really, all he can think is  _ I know _ . Because Steve  _ knows  _ where Clint lives. Steve  _ knows  _ Clint is with Nat, a red headed woman with the poise of a spy and Steve  _ knows  _ that Clint, Nat, and Bucky have movie nights on Friday evenings and they eat dinner together on Mondays and venture out to an old fashioned italian restaurant named Giuseppe's on Wednesdays for lunch.

Steve knows this man when all Clint knows about him is his name. Steve won’t be ignorant to say that isn’t weird because it’s weird as fuck. There is no getting around that.  

“It’s good that you want to secure your house up but you know that these don’t open, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve replied. Short and sweet. Right to the point. “I’d prefer it that way.”

Clint began to type away at the checkout computer. Steve pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. “Okay, pal. Well, you can put your worries aside now. No one’s getting in or out through these.”

“Good.” Steve slid his credit card across the counter and didn’t blink as Clint swiped it. The sound of the machine spitting out the receipt was music to Steve’s ears. He was one step closer.

Clint handed over the receipt, along with Steve’s card, and nodded towards the wrapped up windows. “Want some help loading up? If you bring your truck up front, I can get a few of my guys to load these up for you. They’re pretty heavy.”

Steve slid his wallet back into his pocket and kept his gaze lowered as he nodded his head. “That’d be great actually,” he answered. He rubbed his palms on the back of his jeans, feeling the sweat coat his hands. Steve couldn’t ignore the sick feeling that if Clint  _ knew  _ what the windows were for, or more importantly  _ who  _ they were for, then they’d be having a very different conversation.

But Steve kept his mouth closed and only muttered his thanks once Clint and his men had finished loading the windows up in the truck.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Hours later, with a fair trickle of sweat coating his brow and neck, Steve looked down at one of the new windows resting on top of a work table he had laid out. He has a hammer in one hand, gripped tightly with white knuckles and in one strong movement, Steve banged the tool against the glass and held his breath as he pulled it back away. When he looked back down, there was no crack, no dent, not even a scratch.

Steve smiled at the sight and rubbed his fingers gently against the unblemished surface.

He’s getting the house ready and now he’s one step closer. 

* * *

Steve

May 27, 2015

* * *

 

The high screech is ringing in his ears and his hands vibrate as he holds the electric drill in place, watching it carefully as it screws the bits into place. When the drill head pushes the remaining bolt into place, Steve pulled away and reached out to tug on the metal bar that was put freshly into place. It is a reinforced titanium door security bar that stretches across the width of his front door. On the front side is a new lock that is activated by a code and a key, a two step process that makes opening the door that much harder.

He’s put one on the back door as well, even on the door in his bedroom on the second floor that leads to a small balcony. Each entrance and exit has now been secured from the inside and outside, the security bars glistening in near indestructible precision. The company that he purchased the locks from told him each security bar is supposed to withstand over a thousand pounds of pressure, which was the best of the best with today’s modern accessibility.

Steve knows it’s more than enough for a man like Bucky, who can’t weigh more than one-seventy. It’s even more than enough for Steve, who weighs two-twenty. No matter how many times either of them would throw themselves into the door, it wouldn’t budge. It would stay locked unless it was opened by Steve’s key and password.

It was perfect.

He fingered the dark metal with carefulness, even though it was far from being a delicate object. But it  _ was  _ important, the final preparation that he had to make. The security bar was the signal that the house was  _ ready _ .

Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver key tucked into his wallet. With nimble fingers, he slid the key into the lock and twisted his wrist. The  _ thud  _ was heavy and it seemed to echo inside his skull as he watched the locks jam into place. He let out a shaky breath of relief and leaned his forehead against the thick wood of his front door. Steve closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

Because he knew that it was finally time. He was ready to take the final step.

* * *

May 30, 2015

* * *

 

It’s Thursday. It’s  _ Thursday _ . He doesn’t have work for four days, not until Monday morning. It’s Thursday, and it’s time. He physically cannot wait any more. The days have stretched and the nights are everlasting and he can’t bear it that he’s  _ here  _ and Bucky  _ isn’t _ . He hates waking up in an empty bed; hates blinking away the dream of Bucky smiling sleepily at his side. He hates being in this house when it so quiet that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears and the faint crickets chirping from outside. He hates laying down at night in his cold sheets and spending hours staring up at the ceiling, pretending Bucky is at his side and they get lost in each other’s arms and whispered conversations. Steve cannot go another day like this. He knows by the marrow of his bones that he needs Bucky, needs the man like he needs air to breath.

Steve is sitting on his couch, his same corner spot as usual, with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. There is a strong ache in his chest like always but there’s also a strong feeling of panic, an anxiety driven haze clouding his body like thick fog. He’s known what he’s had to do for weeks now, probably even since the very day he saw Bucky, but there’s a huge difference in  _ knowing  _ what he had to do versus actually  _ committing  _ the act.

He’s dressed in black pants with a black hoodie pulled up around his neck, and boots on his feet. It’s a far stretch from his usual clothes but it’s not like he could go in khakis and a button up. It be like carrying a flashlight in a pitch black room. The whole point is to blend  _ in  _ to the shadows, not stand out.

Steve sighs heavily in his hands and pulls his head away as he stares down at his form. He knows this is crazy, like beyond anything a  _ sane  _ person could possibly do, but does he really have a choice? He has thought out everything, analyzed any possible meeting, any chance encounter that would bring them face to face but… but how would any of those result in Bucky coming here and staying? Out and away from the safety of the city, and his friends just to be with Steve? Steve knows he doesn’t have the power to pull the brunet in like that. Nowhere near it.

Steve looks to his left and eyes the gleaming metal bar across his front door, then turns his head to the right to glance at the matching set on the back door. He glances at each of the windows, knowing they won’t ever open or break, and his eyes dart towards the second floor, knowing that the second level is just as prepared as the bottom one.

The house is ready. He has made it ready. And now…

Steve reaches out onto the cushion beside him and wraps his fingers around the small, clear glass vial that twinkles in the low light of the moon shining through the blinds. With his other hand, he grabs the capped syringe lying besides it and pulls them into his lap, staring down at them with hawk-like eyes. It’s never failed to amaze him at the power of modern medicine, knowing that with one quick injection of the drug inside the glass vial, he can have Bucky out like a light.

He stuffs them inside the pocket of his hoodie and darts a look towards the watch on his wrist. It’s just past two thirty in the morning. Time is somehow managing to move as slow as molasses yet faster than a blink of an eye. His stomach knots in nerves as he realizes it’s time to get a move on.

There is no backing out now. Not when he’s gotten so far.

Steve heaved himself up from his spot and squeezed his car keys in his right hand as he walked across the room. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest but he knows he wants this more than anything. He keeps telling himself that soon, it will all be okay and Bucky will be here with him, safe and secure in his arms. With  _ Steve  _ and no one else.

It’s those thoughts that make Steve nod his head in reassurement and as he reached his front door, he turned around and eyed the familiarity of his house knowing that when he returned, it would no longer be just  _ his  _ home.

It would be Bucky’s too.

As he shut the door behind him, his stride towards his Jeep was one of determination. It was finally time to bring Bucky here and make it his home.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When the glass shifts beneath his fingertips, Steve holds his breath as he pushes one of the windows of Bucky’s apartment up. He hadn’t heard much of a sound, but the soft pop of the lock unhooking made Steve pause, listening carefully for the softest of noises in case Bucky somehow woke from it.

But as five seconds pass, then ten, and not a sound could be heard, Steve finished pushing the window open and picked his leg up to go over the short wall. He gently eases his left leg in through first, carefully placing it onto the floor before repeating the motion with his right.

With both feet planted firmly on the floor of Buck’s apartment, Steve lets out a breathless deep sigh and stares, almost as if in shock, as he realizes he fucking  _ did it _ . He has to resist the urge to jump up into the air and shout in victory because now the hard part is over and dealt with. He got  _ in _ . Getting out would be the easy part.

Steve slowly turned his head to look around the room as he blinked in the darkness. It’s Bucky’s living room. There’s a large tv that sits on an entertainment center and an equally large couch that is placed in front of it. Unless Bucky is a hyper and quite thorough housecleaner, the furniture appears to be brand new and unused with the surfaces polished and decor pillows angled in precise perfection. The sight makes Steve wonder if Bucky spent time actually arranging the cushions or if he just threw them on like that. It also makes Steve think back to the bare couches at the house and he figures that at his first opportunity, he’s going to buy some for them too.

Steve carefully enters further into the room and takes his steps slowly, one at a time and making himself as silent as humanly possible. He approaches a fairly well stocked bookshelf that seems almost crammed to the brim with books of all sizes. It’s enough to spark his curiosity and Steve reaches out and lets his fingers skim along the spines of the novels. It does funny things to his insides when he realizes that Bucky is a book reader and he smiles to himself as he pictures a short stack of novels that would rest on the end table on Bucky’s future side of the bed back in Steve’s bedroom. Steve mentally tells himself that he’s gonna need to buy a lamp if Bucky has a habit of reading at night. But as Steve blinks back into focus, it’s then that he realizes that the majority of them have the name  _ James B. Barnes _ written in fine print down the sides. Steve’s brows furrow slightly and he eases one of the novels out with extreme caution, holding back the rest of the books incase they bump together.

Once the book is in Steve’s hands, he turns the novel around and pulls his phone out to use the faint beam of light from his screen to highlight the author’s page. And much to Steve’s surprise, the picture right there in the middle is a black and white photo of Bucky. His hair is shorter and he’s giving the camera a friendly smile that makes Steve smiles back. After all this time, Steve had figured that Bucky worked from home or was either someone who was just not interested in work period. Now Steve knows the real truth and it makes him that much more eager to hurry this all up and get Bucky to reveal all the things Steve  _ doesn’t  _ know.

He slides the book back into its rightful place and glances towards the hall that extends to the right, before he darts a look towards another that shoots off straight in front of the window towards the front door. Every part of Steve wants to devour this place from top to bottom and get to finally see the type of person Bucky is at home, away from the rest of the world, but the small weight in his hoodie pocket feels like it’s dragging him down and reminding him that he has a job to do. That snooping around can wait for later, after Bucky has been taken care of.

Steve continues his steps on away from the bookshelf and quietly makes his way down the hall that he knows must lead towards Bucky’s bedroom. As he glides down the hall, he can see the dark shadows of photographs hanging on the walls but he also sees an opened doorway that is the only door opened. Steve instantly halts his progress and stares at the opening, knowing without a doubt that it’s Bucky’s room. He suddenly finds himself nervous because there is no longer walls and buildings separating them. There will be nothing holding Steve back from joining Bucky. It makes Steve’s breathing turn shallow.

He reaches into his hoodie pocket and fingers the capped syringe that already holds its intended dosage. It’ll be enough to put Bucky out for at least eight hours, enough to get Bucky sedated for the ride back to the house and thensome. Steve takes a deep breath and forces his feet forward. One step closer, two, three, then four until he’s suddenly there-- standing in Bucky’s doorway and  _ watching  _ Bucky’s form as he sleeps.

The sight stuns him and his lips part as he takes Bucky in. The younger man is sleeping on his stomach with the sheets cocooning around him like a shield against the world. His arms are shoved beneath his head and pillows, and his hair is resting gently around his face and cheek. Bucky is facing him and Steve’s chest clenches as he takes in how peaceful the brunet looks in his sleep. It’s a face that Steve knows he will never get tired of wake up next to.

Steve keeps walking until his thighs are a hair’s width away from the bed and he’s close enough now to see the faint rises and falls of Bucky’s covers as he breathes in his sleep. He stares down at Bucky and blinks, making sure that this is all real and not some figment of his imagination. It’s almost too hard to believe that Bucky is, in fact, real. After watching from a distance for so long, Steve is now here, so close to where he could reach out his arm and touch him if he wanted to and  _ god  _ did he want to. 

But now isn’t the time.

Steve grabs the syringe with his right hand and uncaps the needle. He gives it a good tap to release the air bubbles and holds his breath as he brings it up. Steve knows the next part has to be quick-- quick and  _ careful _ .

He doesn’t give himself any time to second guess himself and suddenly, he leans into motion. Steve slides his left hand over Bucky’s mouth and presses down just as the younger man jolts awake. In the span of a second Bucky went from being dead to the world to suddenly pushing and shoving against Steve’s form that towers over him. Bucky’s eyes are wide and his pupils are blown as Steve looks down at him, fighting to keep him still as Bucky turns onto his back. But Steve was expecting the struggle and urgently leaned more of his weight onto Bucky in order to subdue him. The brunet’s shouts were muffled by Steve’s hands but the frantic sounds of Bucky’s sheets wrestling around his squirming body are loud in the silence of the room. Steve quickly angles Bucky’s jaw to expose the milky spanse of his neck and in one quick motion, he pushes the needle into Bucky’s flesh, right into his bloodstream.

“ _ Sshh _ ,” Steve whispers near Bucky’s ear as he traps the brunet’s arms between their bodies. “ _ Sshh _ , it’s alright.” Bucky is still jerking against Steve’s hold but Steve holds him close as he watches for the telltale signs of the medication taking effect. He knows it won’t be long, faster than a minute, but it’s a minute of watching the fear make Bucky’s body tremble that feels like a punch to the gut. As he pulls the needle out of Bucky’s neck and tosses it away, he brings his free hand to gently brush back the strands of Bucky’s hair that are hanging in his face. “ _ Sshh _ ,” he whispers again. “You’re just going back to sleep. It’s okay.”

Seconds go by with Bucky still fighting against Steve’s hold. The desperate whimpers escaping Bucky’s mouth are choked off by Steve’s hand still pressing down tightly but he still fights with everything he’s got; kicking out his legs and frantically turning his head left and right to break Steve’s grip.

What’s worse is that Bucky is looking straight at Steve throughout the whole struggle, his blue-grey gaze wide in fear yet also seeming to say, _ if you are going to kill me, you are going to have to look at me.  _ Steve doesn’t look away as he whispers, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

More seconds tick by and it’s a sin-filled blessing when Bucky’s movements begin to lessen. His legs drop onto the mattress as his eyes begin to flutter and Steve can see the strong fight Bucky puts up as he tries to resist against the drug pumping through his system. He’s trying but the strong sedation won’t be ignored and with the span of a few more delicate seconds, Bucky’s eyes fall shut and his body turns lax beneath Steve.

Steve releases a heavy sigh of relief and counts off to five in his head before he slowly releases his hold on Bucky’s mouth. Carefully, as if Bucky were made of the finest glass on earth, Steve leans his weight off of the sleeping man and pulls back to look down at what he’s done. He swallows thickly at the sight of the tears that must have leaked from Bucky’s eyes during the struggle and he gently raises his hand to brush them away. He doesn’t mean to let his hand linger but the very second that his skin meets Bucky’s, Steve gasps at the sensation. Bucky is warm and soft, and Steve feels himself get choked up with unshed tears as he finally understands that he can  _ have  _ this now.

With his hands gently framing Bucky’s face, Steve leaned forward to rest his forehead against Bucky’s. The moment is almost unreal but Steve listens carefully to the deep, even breaths of the man beneath him. They’re so close that Bucky’s breath fans softly against Steve’s face and it’s a position that Steve doesn’t want to end anytime soon. He can smell the freshness of Bucky’s skin and the faint citrus scent coming from his hair and Steve breathes it all in deeply, letting the scent get imbedded into his memory.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered into the silent air of the night, his words gently blowing the strands of Bucky’s hair. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, Bucky. We will be so happy together, just you and me... no one else. I’ll make you happy, I promise. I  _ promise  _ you, Bucky.”

Steve looked down at Bucky and watched as the young man’s face stayed relaxed in his sleep, no longer tense and scared as he had been earlier. Being close like this, Steve can admire the strong and defined features of Bucky’s face that are soft to the touch yet seem to be molded from granite. It’s so much better than the pictures. No photo will ever be able to capture Bucky’s perfection as he is in person. You can’t get his smell, or the soft sounds of his breathing, or the warmth of his body; you just can’t. But now Steve has  _ all  _ of that.

Steve shifted slightly and softly pressed his lips against Bucky’s cheek. It’s a short and sweet peck of skin on skin contact but it lights Steve up like a furnace and he wants  _ so much more _ . He closed his eyes and relished in the feel of Bucky under him. A smile graces his face because this--  _ Bucky and him together _ \-- will be Steve’s life from now on. Because finally, he has Bucky.

_ Finally _ , he feels complete.

And what a beautiful feeling that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we can get on to the good stuff now! 
> 
> Let me please take the time now to stress that this story will be quite dark in nature and I have already written up the scenes where violence will be used and they aren't really for the lighthearted. I just want to give the warning now so you have plenty of time to back out. But for those of you that want violence and blood and sex and fucked up psychological abuse then congratulations, this is a story for you!


	3. Bright Blue Eyes

* * *

May 31, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Behind pale eyelids, his eyes began to flutter.

Consciousness was something that dripped slowly into Bucky. Painfully slow; drip by drip, like his body was fighting desperately for him to wake up yet his actual mind couldn’t understand the urgency or the need.

There was a thick fog clouding his skull that even as his body tried to ease itself slowly awake, his head felt too heavy and the room felt like it was spinning too fast. He felt horrible. Like his head wanted to split in half at any given second. There was a pounding too, constant and strong, like a pulse that drummed from one ear to the other, then back again to repeat the endless painstaking cycle.

A heartbeat, he realized.  _ His  _ heartbeat.

Bucky groaned as he felt the sleep leak from his body, making him that much more aware of the throbbing in his head. He pressed his skull further into the pillow beneath him and gently shook his head, trying and failing to get rid of the ache. It was too strong.

_ God, what had he done last night? _

But as he thought about it, even in his half asleep form, he knew he hadn’t had a drink the night prior and if he had, it was certainly not enough to result in this current state. Because he was utterly fucked up. Like disasterly. This was so much worse that the night of his twenty-first and that night had been so bad that just thinking about it made him want to throw up with the pungent taste of alcohol on his tongue. But this… this was like someone had a jackhammer inside his skull and was busy drilling away without any mercy on his behalf.

Bucky groaned again and instead of trying to fool himself into keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer, he slowly cracked them open. At first everything was blurry. His vision was so fuzzy that for a few unsettling seconds he couldn’t even recognize his own bedroom. But then, as Bucky squeezed his eyes shut to fight against the spinning room and re-opened them less than a second later, that unsettling feeling blossomed into something  _ so  _ much worse when he realized that the room he was in was most definitely not his own.

He blinked again, harder this time as if he could will the illusion away.

The room hadn’t changed. The walls were still an unrecognizable dark shade of taupe and the furnishing was all wrong and the curtains on the windows were pulled wide open and letting the sunlight flood in, which was something Bucky  _ never  _ did.

He turned his head to the left, then the right and eyed two doors that faced each other from across the room; one showed him the outside world and the other seemed to be the entrance of the bedroom he was currently in. Bucky stared hard at the door where the sunlight pooled. It wasn’t the light that left him staring in disbelief. No, it was much worse. Unlike his apartment, or anywhere remotely close to it, here there was no city skyline. There were no skyscrapers in the distance or brownstone apartments lined up like dominoes, not even a single billboard.

His brows furrowed. Just where the  _ hell  _ was he?

Bucky picked his head up from the pillow and squinted as if he was seeing it wrong but no, all there was were tall green trees and light blue skies that seemed to stretch on for miles and miles on end. He tried to wrack his brain in order to remember what the fuck he had done the night before but it was all too cloudy when he tried to pinpoint the hours. He remembered being at the apartment, eating take out and watching that documentary Blackfish on Netflix that made him cry, but after that? After that it was like a black hole that churned endlessly and only got larger the more he tried to think.  

Which meant wherever he was, he had no fucking idea how he got here. What he did know, however, was that he needed to get the fuck out. Like pronto.

Bucky swallowed down his nausea and began to push himself up from the bed. He tucked in his elbows to get better leverage against the mattress and as he shifted his left arm--

A strong force tugged against his wrist and held him place.

_ The fuck? _

Bucky’s eyes shot to the restraint. At first, he didn’t understand… he had never seen anything like it before. Wrapped snugly around his wrist was a padded  [ cuff  ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limb_restraint#/media/File:Leg_restraint01_2003-06-02.jpg) that squeezed against his flesh, and surrounding the white padding was a thick, brown leather strap that looked like a secured miniature belt. His brows dipped in confusion at the sight because what the hell was happening here?

Without looking away from the device attaching him to the bed, Bucky pulled against it once more. Part of him almost expected the bindings to just slip away, and another part almost thought he was just seeing things because things like that only existed in scary movies and psychiatric wards not-- not around his fucking wrists. But... hallucinations couldn’t hold like that, they couldn’t pin you down and leave you useless.

The switch was flipped.

Like a wound, realization began to bleed from Bucky and like an sinister infection, horror settled in and shot through his system like fire.

The first ragged breath brushed past Bucky’s lips as he tugged against the restraint again. The first chest heave came not too long after that when he realized that  _ someone  _ had to have put them on him, that someone wanted him immobile and powerless. He couldn’t-- Bucky couldn’t find the breath to fill his lungs as he began to battle against the restraint. He was tugging and yanking and as he tried to push himself up to lean his head against the headboard of the bed, a cold sinking feeling washed over him when he realized that his right arm too was locked and pinned in place.

Something ugly and horrifying began to sink in and claw at his conscience because he knew-- he knew that something wasn’t right here. Something was so  _ very  _ wrong.

He could hear his breathing getting louder and could feel the jagged rise and fall of his chest as he heaved in panic. “ _ No _ ,” he whimpered to himself, pulling harder and more desperately against the restraints holding both of his wrists. He didn’t pay mind to how the bones in his wrists were now crying in protest. All he could do was stare at the bindings around his flesh, muttering, “ _ No, no, no, no _ .”

His movements were loud now, and the tugging against the restraints was enough to ruffle the blankets both over and beneath him. But Bucky didn’t care, he didn’t think that maybe someone else could hear him now. He just kept pulling and  _ pulling  _ and squirming enough that he could feel the beginnings of a rash as the delicate skin of his wrists brushed harshly against the thick paddings.

Bucky let out a harsh gasp of air as he looked back towards the leather restraints and found that despite his efforts, the bindings were still tight, still holding him in their grasps and refusing to let go. His blood ran cold as he understood that the only way he was going to get out of them was if someone  _ let  _ him out.

That meant… that meant that someone was here. The person who had put him here and had put those  _ things  _ on him must either be in another room or-or they would be coming back at any moment. And he-- he couldn’t deal with that. He didn’t want to begin to imagine who put him here and did this to him. He needed to get. The. Fuck. Out.

In pure desperation, Bucky pulled harder on his restraints. This time he tugged so hard that he felt the bones in his left wrist shift uncomfortably. He wanted to cry out but he forced his teeth into his bottom lip to hush himself even though he really wanted to shout and scream and yell for anyone to help him. But the last thing he needed was for the person to come back and finish him off.

So he kept fighting. And fighting. 

He lost track for how long he laid there, exerting himself beyond what he probably should of, knowing he should save his energy for-- for the unknown. Who knew how long he would be tied there? Hours, days,  _ weeks _ ? But the thought of wasting away on that damn bed was enough for Bucky to start his struggles again. Hell if he was tired. He could sleep when he was dead. If he was going to die here, then he was at least going to make damn sure he died trying to get free. 

But then, just as he began to wince with every pull of his left wrist, there was a knock at the door.

Instantly, Bucky froze-- silent and still like death itself.

The sound was soft, like it was a gentle rapt of knuckles against wood, almost as if the person was asking for permission to enter. Bucky didn’t dare fool himself into taking comfort in it. He was alert, eyes wide and trained on the door as he could see the knob begin to move.

No.  _ Nonononono. _ Bucky wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t--

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath as the door opened, slowly and hesitantly.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t even dare to breathe. He was petrified on the spot.

Bucky didn’t look away either. He wants to see. With every fiber of his being he pleads that it’ll be Nat, or Clint, or Becca, or even his parents, and that this was all some horrible  _ prank  _ and he wants to laugh and breath and know that he’ll be okay and get to go back home and live to see another day.

But as the door opened and a person stepped through, the blood drained from Bucky’s face.

Because it wasn’t  _ Nat _ . Or  _ Clint _ . Or  _ Becca _ . Or either of his  _ parents _ .

It was a stranger.

A tall blonde man, thick and muscular, wearing crisp khakis and a grey sweater entered the room with a tray in his hand. He was larger than Bucky, both in muscle and height, and as the man stepped further inside the bedroom, Bucky’s breathing stuttered as he realized that even if he were to get out of the restraints, it would be another obstacle to overtake the man moving in front of him. The blonde glided around the bed towards the end table with his chin lowered, eyes downcasted like he couldn’t look towards him. Unlike the stranger, Bucky watched him silently, refusing to look away. The man could strike at any minute. Even if he was pinned down, Bucky wanted to be as ready as he could.

With his wrists restrained at his sides and his body propped up against the headboard, Bucky followed the blonde’s every move and eyed him as he fumbled with the wooden tray. Bucky’s gaze darted towards the table tray, expecting knives and cleavers but instead, there was a plate of breakfast foods and a large glass of ice water beside it. He looked sharply back up at the man.

Only then did he realize that the stranger was looking right back at him.

For a long, stretched out moment, they stared at one another, silent and motionless, in a dangerous clash of bright blue and burning mercury. Bucky didn’t look away because if he did then who knew what the man would do. Even standing there, weaponless and arms loose by his side, the man’s muscles were obvious in the strain of the sweater. The blonde man stood tall on the balls of his feet like he was ready to pounce at the sign of a fight, and his jaw was set as his bright blue eyes calculated over Bucky’s supine form as if Bucky could somehow jump up from the bed and flee.

Bucky swallowed heavily but it didn’t help; his pulse was skyrocketing, beating through his skin, and he was on the brink of hyperventilating, perhaps even the brink of death.

“Hi,” the blonde whispered, voice jolting Bucky in his spot. He darted a glance towards the man and saw the look on his face. The blonde was looking at Bucky so softly that it made the brunet’s insides squirm in unease because the voice was  _ gentle  _ like a caress-- the opposite of what Bucky had been expecting. Bucky looked away quickly but… but the faint noise tickled against the front of his skull. A forgotten memory of something familiar. Something distinct. Something  _ important _ .

Then in a painful recollection, it all came crashing down on him. He gets a flash of strong arms holding him down, a hand pressing against his mouth, drowning out his cries, a man towering above him, a pair of bright blue eyes looking down at him. He remembers when it all got fuzzy, when the sharp pain in his neck had made the world tilt sideways. He remembers fingers in his hair, gentle despite the struggle. He remembers soft fingers caressing his face and cheeks. But that voice… he remembers that whispered voice more than anything else.

_ “Sshh, it’s alright… You’re just going back to sleep.” _

Bucky sucked in a shaky breath. The man had been in his apartment. The man had taken him and had put him  _ here  _ instead. Bucky tried to focus and  _ think  _ but his heart felt like it was seconds away from exploding and his lungs heaved so much that it hurt to breathe. He  _ couldn’t  _ breathe.

Because this was all so real now. This wasn’t a hallucination or a prank. This wasn’t some fucked up joke being pulled on him. He had been  _ taken _ . Kidnapped right from the safety of his apartment. He should have listened to his sister. He should have never left home. He--

His breathing turned erratic and even though the blonde was looking at him expectantly-- like he  _ expected  _ Bucky to return the greeting-- Bucky refused to acknowledge him. His body was trembling. He clenched his eyes shut and turned his head away from the man, using all of his efforts to focus on inhaling, then exhaling; inhaling, then exhaling until the air was being forcefully shoved back into his lungs.

A heavy sigh left the blonde. Without looking towards the man, Bucky heard him clear his throat before he spoke, “I know you must be… upset right now with, um, all of this. It’s okay. I understand, really, I do.”

Bucky’s eyes reopened but he kept his gaze forward, eyes blurry with unshed tears and a trembling jaw. He can’t bring himself to look at the man. He can’t. Mostly because he doesn’t know what he’ll find if he did.

“My name is Steve,” the blonde continued. Bucky can feel the weight of the man’s gaze searing into the side of his face. Like a burn, red and hot. And  _ heavy _ , so fucking heavy. He barely hears the spoken name over the sound of his breathing, but he still hears it. He just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it. This man  _ kidnapped  _ him and expects the two to relate to one another by giving Bucky his name and trying to understand what he’s  _ feeling _ ?

That man couldn’t possibly begin to understand.

“And, this--” the man spoke further, nodding his jaw around the bedroom, “-- this is my room. I, uh, hope you like it. It should be okay for now but we can remodel it later if you want.”

Bucky blinks at the wall in wordless shock. The words echo throughout his head and he can  _ hear  _ them but-- but he doesn’t understand.  _ Later _ ? The man had said later? Which meant...

A cry left his lips. It was a pathetic whimper but what more could he do?

“P-please don’t d-do this,” Bucky muttered, his jaw trembling as he spoke, and letting his head fall back onto the headboard with a hollow thud of desperation. Only then did he let his gaze sweep towards the blonde and hold. His eyes were wide and pleading as he looked at the man. “Please j-just let me go.  _ Please _ ,” he begged, his voice raw and cheeks wet as silent tears leaked from his eyes.  

The blonde man averted his eyes towards Bucky’s wrists. There was a pained expression on his face. “Are those too tight?” he asked instead.

Bucky dumbly blinked up at the towering individual. His mouth was open in shock, eyes staring in disbelief because was the man not going to address what was happening here? Was he going to act like having Bucky tied down and kidnapped was something  _ normal _ ?

“ _ What _ ?” Bucky asked, incredulously. Maybe the man was mentally deranged. Maybe he had just escaped an insane asylum and had accidentally come across Bucky in the streets. Maybe the guy didn’t even understand what the hell he was doing.

“I thought you would appreciate the padded ones over metal handcuffs,” the man continues. He reaches one of his large hands out and gently fingers the thick leather bindings around Bucky’s left wrist. Bucky’s breath catches as the blonde draws closer and despite the restraints, he digs his heels into the mattress and tries to further himself from his kidnapper. His breaths are loud in his ear and it’s all he can hear apart from the blonde’s movements.

“I know they aren’t entirely comfortable but they shouldn’t hurt unless you fight against them.” His kidnapper then wraps his hand around Bucky’s forearm and ignores how Bucky tries to yank away from him. His grip is strong as his fingers clutch onto Bucky’s skin and with other hand, he gently tucks his index finger into the restraint, poking into the thick padding. Whatever the blonde sees makes him frown and with a heavy sigh he says, “They’re padded for a reason but it looks like you’ve defeated that purpose.”

The man’s bright blue eyes dart to Bucky’s and he watches the brunet’s expression closely as he moves his hand from Bucky’s forearm to his wrist and applies slight pressure. Bucky winces and the man’s shoulders slump, a disappointed sigh leaving his mouth. Nothing about this is something that Bucky can begin to understand. It’s almost like the man actually cares about his well being but… but if that were the case then why was he  _ here _ ? Bucky could only keep looking at the man, wordless and in shock.

The man pulls his hands away and is still looking at Bucky closely when he breaks the silence. “I’ll have to check those later to make sure you didn’t do any lasting damage to yourself. But for the time being, it’s the most effective and safest way to restrain you.”

“I won’t say anything to the authorities,” Bucky rapidly shot out, sitting up as far as he could and pulling up his legs to his chest. At least in this position he could somewhat fight back. If he needed to. “I swear. J-just please let me go. No one will ever know--”

“Bucky...,” the blonde man interrupted him, Bucky’s name falling from his lips like a sweet caress. His kidnapper slowly inched closer towards the bed. Bucky flinched as the man approached and he tried to push himself as far away as he could but the restraints held him in place and left him powerless as the man reached out. Two large hands engulfed Bucky’s left hand and even though he tried to yank free, the man held on, holding his hand firmly in his stronger grasp. Bucky whimpered as the man sighed, before his bright blue gaze flickered towards Bucky’s. The man’s large shoulders slumped down and the look in his eyes was so sickening soft that it made Bucky recoil.

“... I’m not letting you go.”

Bucky eyes widened in horror as he stared at the man. His vision seemed to tunnel; the room darkening and his hearing turning hollow. He tried to pull his hand free again but the man was having none of it and held on, bringing it closer to his frame and away from Bucky. He kept trying to pry himself free and he turned his head away as the man seemed to get closer. “You might not…  _ feel  _ it at this moment, but this is your home now,” the man said, his hands around Bucky’s squeezed slightly. “You’re staying here, Bucky. With me.”

“ _ No _ ,” Bucky pleaded. He was shaking his head rapidly from side to side, chest heaving and tears running down his face. “No. Please,  _ please  _ don’t do this. I don’t-- I can’t-- I have f-family a-and friends. Don’t do this!”

Steve released Bucky’s hand and lowered his head. Bucky saw the muscles in the man’s neck shift as the blonde swallowed heavily and turned towards the tray on the end table. He was moving his hands, ignoring Bucky’s cries, and shook his head sharply. “It’s already done, Bucky.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling, “No, no, no, no,” as he shook his head rapidly. Strands of his hair were plastered to his damp cheeks and hanging in front of his eyes but he could still see as the man lifted the cup of water and brought it towards Bucky’s lips.  

“Here,” the man brought it up but Bucky refused, and kept shaking his head from side to side. He had no clue what was in that fucking cup. Drugs? Sedatives? Poison? Whatever the man had put into his neck had been enough to knock him out for--  _ fuck _ , Bucky didn’t even know how long he had been out. The sun was up but had he been out cold for days or hours? He had no way of knowing.

The blonde sighed heavily again. “If you don’t drink, I’ll have to put an IV in. If you don’t have fluids in your system soon then you’ll get dehydrated and I won’t allow that.”

“Why?” Bucky whispered. His voice was nearly unrecognizable to his own ears, raw and broken. Defeated. “You’ll k-kill me eventually. Might as w-well get it over with now and quit th-this bullshit. I don’t want this.”

Terror shot through Bucky as he watched the man freeze and pull back slightly. There was a deep frown on his face but his eyes… his eyes were so soft and gentle and comforting. “No, Bucky. I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but I will never hurt you. You...” his features schooled into something that was sincere, something that was too truthful and open that it sent a shiver snaking its way down Bucky’s spine. “You mean too much to me for that to happen.”

The words made him still as they sunk in. Every part of his body locked in place and screamed at him to get free, to fight and run as far and as fast as he could away from this man. The blonde was still hovering at Bucky’s left and not once did Bucky turn his attention away. The man may have promised he would spare Bucky’s life but at what cost? To what extreme?

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the blonde. He tried to remember ever seeing him since it was obvious by now that the man who kidnapped him must have known him at some point. Somewhere along Bucky’s short lifespan they must have crossed paths but where? And when? Bucky had no fucking clue.

“W-who are you?” he whispered into the quiet air between them. He let his eyes skim the blonde’s features for familiarity but it was still all so blank. Dangerously blank. “Do I...do I know you? D-Did I do something to y-you?”

His kidnapper shook his head and there was a faint smile playing at his mouth, like he found the question amusing. Bucky waited with baited breath as the man put the glass back down before straightening up and putting his full attention on Bucky.

“We’ve never met before,” the man answered. Bucky kept looking at him, waiting for the explanation that wasn’t coming fast enough. The blonde tilted his head to the side slightly as he regarded Bucky as if he wasn’t sure what to say. The look made Bucky swallow uncomfortably because if it was uneasy for his  _ kidnapper  _ to explain then Bucky could only imagine how unbearable it would be to listen to.

“Well, not in person at least,” the man amended. “I--” he bit on the inside of his cheek, and there was a look in his bright blue eyes that seemed like he was on edge, like he knew hell was about to wash upon them. Bucky’s fingers curled tightly into his palms. “--I saw you a few months ago and…” he let his voice trail off and he looked towards the windows, away from Bucky.

“And w-what?” Bucky urged. His breathing was coming in and out in sharp puffs, and he watched his kidnapper like a hawk as the man fingered the sheets of the bed, his blue gaze following his movements. His palms were inches away from Bucky’s leg and the brunet half expected him to close the short distance and actually touch him. He could feel the man’s warmth, feel it hovering in the small space between them.

The man’s fingers stilled their movements and his palms laid flat against the bed, still so close to Bucky. “And I  _ knew _ ,”  the blonde whispered. His eyes flickered back to Bucky and held, “I knew that that you are the one for me.”

Bucky’s lungs constricted in one sharp inhale. He felt panic begin to bleed into his system from every blood vessel and vein, absorbing into his brain like the organ was a vulnerable sponge. His hands were shaking, feet tingling and aching to run. Tension grew in his limbs and every breath that he struggled to take was more rapid, more shallow. He blinked back the mistiness of his eyes as he looks towards his captor.

“W-what does th-that mean?” he struggled to find his words.

The man didn’t look away from him anymore. Those bright blue eyes watched every movement that he did, every breath that he took. “It means that you and I are going to be together now.”

The tears that Bucky had been holding suddenly broke free and flowed like endless streams down his face.

“ _ No _ ,” he sobbed. Bucky shook his head rapidly, his hair getting tossed around and the back of his skull hitting the headboard with each of his hasty movements. He was jerking against the restraints again and his left wrist hurt like hell but he ignored it and kept pulling, praying for release. But the more he struggled, the more angrier he became, like his body couldn’t handle the adrenalin burning through him and he needed a release. “No!” he shouted over and over again, yanking hard against his bindings. His body was thrashing and trying to get as far away from the man as he could. “I can’t stay here! Let me go you asshole! Let me go! S-Someone help me!  _ Please _ !”

“Bucky, no one can--” The blonde reached forward towards him but Bucky flinched away.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he screeched. Bucky moved as far as could to the right side of the bed that his left arm was fully outstretched but no matter how far he pushed himself, the blonde was there, hands at the ready.  

Bucky turned his head towards the window and kept shouting for someone to help him, because someone had to be out there, someone had to hear him. He couldn’t stomach the possibility that he was all alone with his captor, tied up and useless. He let himself believe that if he tried hard enough, someone would hear.

So he kept yelling.

He kept tugging on his restraints.

He kept thrashing against the bed.

Bucky didn’t turn his head when he felt the man get onto the bed. He didn’t want to look, he  _ couldn’t  _  He kept his tearful eyes trained on the window and let his voice turn nonexistent with his screams.

Bucky didn’t look as his kidnapper pulled the syringe from his pocket and uncapped it with his teeth. He didn’t look as large hands reached out and gripped him, one holding his jaw and the other inching close to his neck. 

“This is for your own safety, Buck,” the man’s voice was right in Bucky’s ear. “I can’t have you hurting yourself.” The sharp pain in Bucky’s neck was done and over before he had time to process it. 

He knew what it was this time, and knew what would happen to his body not long after. In pure desperation, Bucky twisted himself to try and get the man’s hands off of him. He could feel the telltale signs of his vision turning fuzzy around the edges and the room seemed to fall in slow motion, his limbs and eyelids feeling heavy.

“ _ Please _ ,” he whimpered, trying one last time to reach the man’s sensibilities. His mind was foggy and he couldn’t feel himself tilting sideways until strong arms encased him and pulled him into something solid and warm.

He opened his mouth again to speak but his lips weren’t moving and he could nothing more when his lids closed and sleep forced him to succumb into darkness.

* * *

Steve

June 4, 2015

* * *

 

Steve retracted himself from Bucky, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and eased himself off of the bed with ease as he untangled their limbs. It was late in the afternoon, just past eight, and for the last half hour he had been plastered to Bucky’s side, holding the brunet close and whispering sweet nothings that the sleeping young man would never remember.

As his feet touched the floor of his bedroom, Steve reached down and pulled the blankets up to Bucky’s chin, making sure the brunet was comfortable and warm until Steve came back from his shower. He let his hands undo both of the restraints around Bucky’s wrists and gently palpated the aggravated skin and fragile bones that had been held in place for the past few hours, before tucking them beneath the blanket along with the rest of Bucky’s body.

Unbeknownst to the knocked out young man, every time his grey eyes forcefully fell shut, Steve always made sure he undid the bindings so Bucky could at least sleep comfortably and give his limbs the break they needed. After that first day restrained, the bruises around Bucky’s wrists only darkened with each day that passed; from dark pink and red to blue and purple, the signs of attempted healing but Bucky’s constant struggling refused his body to allow it. Steve had hoped that by undoing the bindings while Bucky slept then the healing process would further itself but the very second Bucky awoke, his thrashing began and any attempt at healing was long forgotten.

Steve checked the time on his phone and made sure to reset the alarm that would alert him when he would need to reattach the restraints onto Bucky, usually a good few minutes before the drugs wore off and Bucky blinked himself back to life.

With his phone aside, Steve turned to another device that required his attention and once he made sure Bucky was firmly tucked in, he shifted towards the IV machine and upped the fluid levels. Today Bucky had been quite… vocal, more so than usual to the point where if Steve hadn’t administered the drugs when he did, he could have done serious damage to his vocal cords from prolonged abuse.

The needle was tucked into the junction of Bucky’s elbow, tapped carefully in place that Steve had to take precaution of when he held Bucky at night. The IV fed a constant supply of much needed fluids and nutrition into Bucky since even after five days, the brunet refused to touch anything that Steve gave him.

They had been doing this for five days now.

Five long days filled with fighting and screaming and hours that ended up with Bucky sedated longer than he was actually awake.

It was four days now that Bucky had left Steve with no choice but to administer the IV. He absolutely refused to eat or drink anything that Steve handed to him so he had to take an alternative and began pumping Bucky’s systems with everything he needed, from fluids and nutrition, to the low dosage of morphine that helped Bucky with the pain from his sprained left wrist. The brunet had done quite the damage to his carpal bones and although Steve inspected and re-wrapped the area daily, the bruising dripped down mid forearm and stood out like smudge against Bucky’s milky skin. As much as it pained Steve to see Bucky hurting himself, it was necessary for the time being.

He had worked this morning. The weekend had been just him and Bucky, getting accustomed to each other and their new routine. But, like he knew, work eventually came back into the equation and he hadn’t bothered letting Bucky wake up, making sure that he doubled the dosage that would keep Bucky under until he got back home. The problem, however, was although the drugs worked extraordinarily well, there was a danger in taking too much and honestly, Steve was getting tired of having to put Bucky down. Sure it made the nights easier to hold the young man on the bed, like they were actually something  _ more,  _ but it physically wounded Steve everytime he drove that needle into Bucky’s neck and held on as Bucky’s movements lulled and he dropped dead in Steve’s arms.

Although he had a large stock on endless demand, Steve didn’t want to do it anymore. And as of thirty minutes ago, when Bucky fell asleep once more, Steve decided that it was time to try a different method. Starting tomorrow, he would hold off on the sedative and let Bucky stay awake. More importantly, he was going to take off those restraints and let Bucky wander.

Because  _ eventually  _ he had to see the house. Afterall, it was part his now and Bucky needed to make himself at home. Sooner, rather than later.

* * *

Steve took a deep breath before he glided through the doorway of the bedroom, wooden tray in hand as he balanced the items on top. Everytime he did this he purposefully went overboard, trying to persuade Bucky with the finest foods he could make. He still wasn’t entirely sure of Bucky’s food preference since the young man still hadn’t actually  _ eaten  _ anything, but he was damn sure ready to cook whatever Bucky wanted.

Because just how many times had he envisioned it? Picturing making his lover’s favorite meal; bringing them breakfast in bed on weekday mornings just before they prepared for the day. It had been something that he had wanted for so long and it was just so…  _ overwhelming  _ now, with Bucky actually here but not-- not really, not the way Steve wanted him.

Then again, all things considered, Steve expected a  _ bit  _ more time until Bucky started to come around. He was walking on incredibly thin ice here. Any wrong move could have Bucky spiraling out of control. Any wrong word could have the young man tuning Steve out for days, refusing to utter a single word except for scream his lungs out as he uselessly called for help.

It was only a matter of time. That’s what Steve kept telling himself. It’s what kept him going. He knew that once Bucky hit rock bottom, the only place he could go was  _ up  _ and Steve was going to be damn well sure that he would be there waiting with wide open arms.

All Steve was doing was playing a very tricky form of the waiting game and Steve was never one for giving up. He had a plan-- taking down Bucky’s defenses was the first step and from there the rest would fall into place one by one like pieces of the most breathtaking puzzle imaginable.

Steve had to start somewhere, and rock bottom was what this was.

Steve smiled towards Bucky as he stepped further into the room. “Mornin’,” he said, purposefully chipper to overpower the brunet’s glower. Seriously, if the guy could kill people with his looks Steve would have been in stage three of the decomposition process by now. That’s how  _ good  _ Bucky was.

Bucky, however, stayed poised as ever, silent and still, as he sat up against the headboard.

“So, I have a proposal for you,” Steve said, forcing the silence away. Over the past five days he had had enough of it and he wanted it to damn well end.

Steve approached the bed carefully, making sure he was moving slow enough that Bucky didn’t see him as a threat because it practically killed him everytime Bucky jolted away when he got a bit too close. 

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to his. The young man didn’t speak but Steve could tell that he was silently urging him on, telling him to get on with it.

Steve stepped forward and bent over to place the bed tray over Bucky’s lap. Bucky tensed as Steve got close but at least it wasn’t as violent as his movements had been days prior. Steve doesn’t think the words ‘ _ Get the fuck away from me _ !’ will ever stop replaying in his skull, nor will the burn of pure hatred in Bucky’s eyes ever be erased from his memory.

With the tray and fresh food in front of Bucky, Steve gently eased himself on the bed, sitting on the brunet’s right. Bucky’s gaze flickered down to the tray but less than a second later, those mercury iris’ were trained back on Steve.

“If you eat--” Steve nodded his chin towards the food on the tray, “--”I’ll take off the restraints.”

At first Bucky didn’t react. He kept staring lifelessly at Steve with his arms spread at his sides like a crucifix. But then, as the seconds tick by, it begins to visually dawn on Bucky that Steve just might be telling the truth. The reaction on his face is beautiful to watch. Those slick red lips of his part in disbelief, glossier than usual from the chapstick Steve had put on him an hour earlier. His eyes are wide now as he looks at Steve.

It might not be the look that Steve would prefer Bucky giving him but at least it isn’t those stares of hatred any more, even if only for a few minutes. But seeing the expression on Bucky’s face makes Steve want more and he continues speaking just so that astonished look doesn’t vanish.

“ _ And _ , I won’t put you back to sleep before I go to work. You’ll be able to walk around the house while I’m gone. How does that sound?”

Steve’s grin stretched as Bucky’s features blossomed into confusion. Bucky had only been off of the medications for a few hours now and if he was this expressive this quickly, Steve couldn’t imagine the emotions that would flicker across his face as days went by and his system was no longer fuddled by the concoction of drugs. Just imagining it sent a tingle down Steve’s spine.

His question hangs in the air as he is met with silence from Bucky. The brunet is still looking at Steve as if he’s lost his mind and maybe that’s what Bucky  _ is  _ thinking. How many times had Steve dealt with patients waking up from induced comas and anesthesia operations with their minds jumbled and not having the ability to string one thought to the next? How many times had those patients woken up fighting in confusion and staring at loved ones as if they were aliens from a different planet? The statistics were pretty fucking high.

But Bucky wasn’t just another statistic. He was something so much  _ more  _ than that.

“Bucky, you have to say something,” he urged, tone soft and sincere to coax the young man into speaking.

It was enough to pull Bucky from wherever his mind was.Bucky swallowed heavily before chancing his voice. “Wh-what’s the catch?” His voice is still hoarse and Steve sets a mental reminder to get some medicine for his sore throat. He’s just happy that Bucky has finally spoken.

“The catch?” Steve repeated. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t planned on using leverage against Bucky, but... since the young man threw it out there, Steve may as well take advantage of it. So he thought about it, what  _ did  _ he want? The list was long, probably embarrassing so, but it didn’t take him a more than ten seconds until he knew exactly what he wanted.

It may not have been the most important aspect, but it was pretty important to him.

Steve leveled his gaze with Bucky as he answered, “I want you to call me by my name.”

In an instant, Bucky stilled. His limbs locked up at his sides and Steve could see how he clenched down on his jaw. Steve half expects a fight and waits with his breath held in his lungs as he anticipates the shouts of refusal on Bucky’s behalf. He doesn’t think it was much to ask for but looking at Bucky’s clouded expression makes him reconsider the thought. Was it too soon to be on a first name basis? Was it really that hard for Bucky to utter the simple, one syllable name--  _ his  _ name?

_ No _ , Steve tells himself. It isn’t much to ask for. He is being reasonable here.  _ Completely _ . So he holds his ground and doesn’t retract his words.

They sit in silence. Steve doesn’t care, not this time. If Bucky wants to be this stubborn then that’s on him. Steve is doing the right thing here, offering Bucky freedom from the room on a shiny fucking platter.

It takes a while until slowly, Bucky jerks his head in agreement. Steve never doubted that he wouldn’t, it was just the matter of when. The young man may hate him at the moment but Steve would be willing to bet that Bucky would at least hate him a bit less if those restraints were out of the picture.

Well, not  _ completely  _ out of the picture yet because Steve isn’t stupid, afterall.

But Bucky still agrees and it’s enough to send Steve shooting straight into cloud nine. He can’t help the smile that stretches across his lips as he nods his head in contempt, before reaching out to pick up the fork from the tray.

Bucky’s gaze shoots to the movement and his dark brows furrow as he watches Steve. His grey eyes narrow when Steve stabs into the scrambled eggs.

“You...you aren’t going to take them off?” Bucky carefully asks. His head is turned to the side slightly as if he’s expecting a blow that he doesn’t know will never come. It still doesn’t make it any less painful to witness on Steve’s behalf.

Steve shakes his head. “Not yet, no,” he answers. “I need to make sure you keep your end of the bargain and not…”  _ Fight back _ , he finishes silently in his head.

“But I-I can’t eat with my hands tied like this,” Bucky’s head straightens forward again, face to face with Steve. The young man inches further up on the headboard but Steve is quick to scoot closer as well.

“I know,” he responds. He lifts the fork up and holds it towards Bucky. “That’s why I’m going to feed you.”

A pained expression flashes across Bucky’s face and he rapidly begins to shake his head. “No. No, I don’t--”

“ _ Bucky _ ,” he interrupts before the brunet gets too worked up. Bucky freezes and his eyes shoot right back to Steve, effectively shutting up. “You need to eat. Prove to me that you can do it and I’ll remove the restraints like I said. I  _ promise _ , Buck, just show me you can do this.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly, silently analyzing Steve like he’s looking right through his soul and trying to dissect his every word. Whatever Bucky must find is enough for him to hesitantly nod his head.  

With Bucky’s given permission, Steve raises the fork again and slowly eases it towards Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’s jaw is trembling but he keeps his eyes focused on Steve as he inches closer. There’s a rebellious shine that burns with life in Bucky’s mercury gaze but as Steve draws in, those eyes close in defeat, only to be re-opened a beat later but this time they’re dull and closed off. He parts his red lips as Steve carefully pushes the utensil forward.

Steve grins as Bucky takes his first bite and watches as the muscles in his neck swallow the food. It’s beautiful to witness up close instead of through the lens of a camera.

He smiles as he stabs more eggs onto the fork because this is a big fucking victory in his books. So far so good.

* * *

Bucky

* * *

 

Bucky sits motionless on the bed, watching as Steve walks around the room getting ready for work. The blonde hadn’t changed in front of Bucky but the top two buttons of Steve’s shirt are undone and he’s aimlessly shuffling through the closest looking for something that Bucky doesn’t know.

They haven’t spoken to each other since Steve took away the breakfast tray but the unspoken promise is floating between them, practically screaming for attention. Bucky doesn’t dare mention it partly because he still doesn’t think Steve is going to release the restraints and well, he’s scared shitless that the blonde will drive another needle into his neck if he says the wrong thing. And if there is one thing that Bucky  _ does  _ know, it’s that he doesn’t want to go back under whatever the hell that drug is that Steve keeps forcing on him. He knows he has lost so much time and yeah he could try asking Steve just what day it is but truthfully, he’s scared. Bucky wants to fool himself into believing that he’s only been here for a few hours but he can feel it in his bones that it’s been more like  _ days  _ instead. God forbid it actually being weeks.

He swallows down his train of thought, forcing himself to leave it before he crumples beneath the unbearable weight of dread that has seeped through his veins. If Steve is actually going to stick to his word, then Bucky needs to keep his mind clear and ready. So he focuses.

There is soft oldie music drifting through the room from a small speaker on the dresser and Steve is humming beneath his breath, the noise deep and almost vibrating against Bucky’s raw skin. The tune sounds like something from the forties and it may not be what Bucky is accustomed to but it beats the silence and it sure as hell outweighs having to listen to the painfully awkward attempts of conversation that Steve usually shoots his way.

Bucky tilts his jaw up higher as Steve turns back around, a hanger in his hand with a navy suit jacket in tow. He’s silent as Steve slips it on and holds his breath when those blue eyes train on him, sharp and unmoving. Then, Steve is stepping towards the bed, coming closer to Bucky. Again.

When Steve sits down next to him, Bucky doesn’t move. It’s not like he can go far and it’s as if his brain finally understands that, like his mind has given up before he even knew it. The man is large and so invasive that it’s hard to ignore him even when Bucky is looking everywhere except  _ at  _ Steve. He can feel him though; feel his warmth, and his eyes.

Suddenly Bucky is jerked from his thoughts when Steve begins to reach towards the restraint on his left wrist. Bucky doesn’t bother looking at the blonde and instead, his gaze shoots right to his restrained hand. He had seen the bruising that leaked down his left forearm-- like paint splatters of red and purple pain, something straight out of a horror movie-- but nothing prepares him for the sight of his wrist when Steve pulls away and takes the binding with him. Bucky stares at his limb like he’s never seen it before, because he hasn’t, not when it looked a mess like that. The skin is mottled in dark purples and reds, even sickly shades of green that are contrasted boldly against his pale skin. It looks... Bucky pulls his attention away with a hard swallow and quickly brings his wrist down towards the rest of his body.

But before Bucky can process what’s happening, he’s painfully hissing through his teeth. Steve’s hand had shot out and gripped like a vise onto his bruised forearm.

“ _ Don’t _ .”

Bucky froze at the tone.

He stilled in Steve’s grasp, eyes blown wide at the growled warning. He feels like a deer caught in headlights as he looks at Steve, the blonde looking right back at him just as strong.  _ Stronger _ . Bucky’s heart pounds in his chest and he can physically feel every beat jump against his rib cage like the drum of a war cry.

Bucky doesn’t move as Steve stares at him, his grip unforgiving against Bucky. And it’s then that he gets a look at what Steve can  _ really  _ do, the power that the man possesses. Bucky knew Steve was well built but the grip on his arm feels like it’s crushing him and grinding his bones into dust.

If Steve can do this  _ unprovoked _ , Bucky can only dread what the blonde man would do when he actually has a reason. The thought terrifies him.

It’s everything short of a blessing when Steve finally releases his grip. There’s something apologetic in his blue eyes but he says nothing as he lowers Bucky’s wrist and moves towards the other side of the bed. Bucky can only stare, startled into unforgiving silence. Steve doesn’t speak until his fingers are working at the leather of the other binding.

“It wouldn’t be… wise if you try something stupid when I undo this restraint,” Steve informs him. The blonde may not be looking at him as he speaks but Bucky knows Steve has him on lock through his peripherals. “I may have promised you that I would take them off but I won’t hesitate to put them back on if I need to.”

Steve turns his head and lowers his chin to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky knows what Steve wants and doesn’t dare take a second to pause. The memory of the power in Steve’s grip is still too fresh in his mind to think otherwise.

Bucky jerks his head in silent understanding and it is only then that Steve’s fingers continue their movements and undo the buckle.

Within a few movements of Steve’s fingers, Bucky is free.

The air is cold as it licks against the raw skin of his wrists but he pays it no mind, instead, Bucky exhales shakily as he takes in the sight of his right wrist, nowhere near as bad as the other but still blotched and battered in reds and purples. This time, he’s carefully slow as he lowers it onto his lap. They feel heavy, almost foreign, and without looking, Bucky knows that Steve is watching his every move. The blonde is practically hovering over him now, arms ready at his sides like he’s preparing for Bucky to make a move.

But Bucky isn’t stupid and he doesn’t plan on jumping Steve when his arms are so weak that he can barely lift them. So he sits there, wordlessly, as Steve stands up.

“I have to leave for work but i’ll be back soon enough,” Steve spoke. “You have everything you need. There’s fresh clothes in the drawers, food in the fridge, and if you want, the tv remote is on the coffee table in the living room.”

Bucky nods his head like he gives a shit about any of it. Does Steve really think Bucky is just gonna sit around the damn house and watch tv like it’s some casual fucking day? If so, the man is more stupider than Bucky initially thought. Maybe the blonde was all brawn and no brain, and all Bucky really needed to do was outsmart the asshole. Although broken and defeated, hope began to flutter deep in his stomach.

He listens as Steve says his goodbye and that he’ll be back soon, and he quietly watches as Steve leaves through the bedroom door, keeping his back towards the door as he exits.  _ Smart move _ , Bucky thinks. So maybe the blonde wasn’t as stupid as he thought.

Bucky strains his ears and the very  _ moment  _ that he hears the front door open and close, and the house turns silent, he’s throwing himself out of the bed and running out of the bedroom. He pays no attention to where he is or what he passes, all he knows is he’s dashing down the hall and practically jumps down the steps, taking two at a time so quickly that he almost trips over his feet. When his feet touch the floor at the end of the staircase, it takes him less than a second to spot the front door.

His breathing is laboured as he slides up to the door but as he stands in front of it, he halts. Bucky stares hard at the door and can feel dread creep over him like an icy chill, numbing his brain and body in something that feels so horribly close to death. He’s breathing but the air won’t go in properly, as if his lungs are surrounded by metal bands that are refusing the oxygen.

Slowly, he reaches out. When his fingers slide against the cool metal slab across the door, a desperate whimper leaves his throat as realization dawns on him. He’s locked in. Sure Steve may have undone his restraints, but did it really matter if this new found freedom was nonexistent itself? He may not have chains around his wrists but this house will still be his  _ prison _ .

He loses it. The final string of his sanity snapping in half. 

Bucky throws himself forward and pries at the metal slab. He digs his fingernails along the dull edges and pulls and pulls until his nails bleed in protest. His breathing is loud in the silence of the room and he can only pray that someone can hear his pounding on the door. Bucky’s voice is already hoarse and raw but he screams for someone to help him and keeps screaming until his voice cracks. He knows he stands at that door for hours, still pulling even though nothing moves. Not a slight creak of wood from the door, or a budge or release from the slab.

His struggles are useless. 

Bucky leans his forehead against the door and stares down through blurry eyes at the gleaming metallic shine of the slab. He tries to blink back the tears but he can feel the wetness against his cheeks as they fall.

“ _ No _ ,” he whispers to himself. “P-please open, please,  _ please _ ,” he sobs. Bucky reaches down at the knob of the door and tries to twist it open. It was a pointless attempt but he’s desperate enough to try anything. 

It doesn’t move.

It doesn’t  _ fucking  _ move.

Bucky backs away from the door and hastily turns his head towards the sunlight shining in through the large windows in the living room. He rushes across the floor and shoves the couch in front of the windows to the side. It comes as a shock when the movement leaves him winded and he has to hunch over for a few minutes until he can catch his breath again.

As he straightens back up, he pushes his hair out of his face and steps up to the windows. He takes one deep, steadying breath before he frantically begins to finger the ledge of the windows. There is no panes, just one large slab of see through glass that makes Bucky blink in disbelief because surely the windows have to open. Bucky’s eyes scan the edges, trying to find the latch but it’s not there. His hands hadn’t deceived him, there’s truly  _ nothing  _ there.

His lips part in disbelief and he slowly lifts up his one of his palms and places it against the glass. He stares into the yard and let’s his gaze take in the wooded area. Steve has no fence and there’s nothing in the backyard that says the blonde is concerned about neighbors swiping unattended items or people peeking in through the uncovered windows.

It only means one thing.

Bucky is  _ isolated _ . Steve doesn’t care about a privacy fence or putting curtains on the windows because there is no one around to worry about. No one is here besides them. No one is going to hear him scream. No one is going to come help him.

His jaw is trembling as he lifts his other hand up against the window. There are more tears streaking down his face but he doesn’t bother swiping them away. There’s no use.

There is  _ no fucking point _ . To any of this. To Steve. To Bucky being trapped here.

His lungs are constricting on themselves again and he sways on his feet as dizziness clouds his head. Bucky has to reach out for the wall and quickly turns his back against it, stabilizing himself for a short second before he begins to slide down the surface. His chest is heaving as he sits down and with his back straight against the wall, and his feet flat against the floor, he brings his hands up to his face and sobs into them.

Bucky cries on the floor for hours and then after, he cries some more.

He cries for his parents.

He cries for Becca.

He cries for Nat and Clint.

He cries for his freedom.

It’s after his tears have all dried up that he realizes that if he wants out, he’s going to have to help himself. Anyone and everyone else be damned.  

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

Steve is incredibly quick to close the door behind him as he enters his house. He had taken extra care in being quiet as he approached the house, not doubting that Bucky would try and escape.

But as he enters into the house, it’s quiet. Almost eerily so, that if he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed that Bucky was sedated in the bed upstairs and knocked out cold. Of course he knows that isn’t the case, and as Steve steps further into the house, he’s wound up tight and ready for an attack that he knows has been waiting for him all day. He listens carefully for any movement or sounds but everything is silent enough that all he can hear is the soft tap of his shoes against the wooden floor of his hallway.

Without looking away from the space where the hall leads into the rest of the house, Steve approaches the small safe he imbedded in the wall by the front door and types in his code before the small door pops open with a  _ click _ . He throws his keys and wallet in before sliding it shut and cautiously stepping towards the right side of the hall, towards the living room and kitchen.

He rounds the corner sharply to avoid a surprise attack but as his gaze settles on the scene in front of him, his body relaxes. 

The living room is in chaos. The long piece of the sectional couch is pushed all the way to the side, the coffee table is upturned, everything that was on it is in a messy heap on the floor, and there’s large chunks of wooden splinters everywhere Steve can see. Then, right in the middle of it all, is Bucky, crumpled in on himself on the cold ground and passed out.

Steve turns his head towards the island counters in the kitchen and eyes the missing stools that had been there that morning. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that Bucky had smashed them against the windows trying to get out. Steve gives the young man credit considering everything that could do potential damage is locked away in an old shed outside, so really the stools were one of Bucky’s better options.

The kitchen isn’t really in a much better shape either compared to the living room. Every drawer and cabinet is pulled wide open, and there’s cooking utensils thrown out across the floor along with various pots and pans. If Bucky was looking for a knife those too are stored in the safe on the wall, purposefully hidden from Bucky for moments like this.

With his hands on his hips, Steve sighs quietly as he regards the mess, knowing he’ll have to clean it all up sooner rather than later. But at least it can wait for the time being, so instead, he closes the distance between him and the brunet, walking silently into the living room.

As he approaches Bucky, Steve squats down on his haunches and reaches his hand out to check the pulse at Bucky’s neck. It’s slow but it’s consistent and not something that concerns Steve. He knew that Bucky would be worn out. After being pumped with drugs for days on end, it is no surprise that it’s all taken its toll on Bucky. Honestly it was everything short of a miracle that the young man had had enough energy to do the mess that he did, instead of sleeping for hours on end.

He doesn’t know exactly how long Bucky has been out but since the brunet is still dead asleep despite Steve touching him, he knows it couldn’t have been long otherwise Bucky would have jolted at the first second of touch. It’s still pretty early in the afternoon, just past five, but by the looks of it Bucky is out for the rest of the day as his body desperately tries to catch up to the misuse it’s been given over the past week. Steve figures that he can clean up in the meantime, at least he’ll have something to do. Sure he had pictured their first full day together a bit… differently but he’d get it eventually.

Steve reaches down and gently hooks one arm under Bucky’s neck, the other going beneath Bucky’s knees. The younger man is easy to hoist up in his arms and Steve gets a flash to the day he brought Bucky in, just the same way. It feels like so much time has passed between them yet at the same time, it feels just like yesterday was the day he finally got his hands on the brunet and brought him home.

It’s crazy how that can happen, simultaneously blending together the hands of a time like that.

When Steve stands straight up, the motion jostles Bucky slightly and he stirs in Steve’s hands. Bucky’s eyelids begin to flutter and he tries to push himself up but Steve holds him close to his chest and brings the brunet’s head up to the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into Bucky’s hair. “Just stay asleep. Your body needs it, Buck.”

Bucky is so worn out that he isn’t conscious enough to make the decision to fight against him, just slumps back into Steve’s arm like deadweight. Steve holds him just a bit tighter, so close that Bucky’s breath is warm on his neck.

Steve relishes in the feel as he turns towards the steps, carefully and gently taking Bucky to bed-- _their_ bed. God, how that makes Steve smile like the love-struck fool he is. 


	4. Mint

June 5, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up with his back pressed against something warm. For a split second, he enjoys it, feeling that heat pool over his body and into his skin. It engulfs him whole and he’s out of it enough to want to press himself into it even further, let it consume him and envelope him into more sleep.

_ Sleep.  _ It feels like he hasn’t had any in days. His eyes feel heavy and even though he wants to keep them open, the warmth and the comfort of the sheets make it hard to resist as his eyelids threaten to flutter close. In truth, he thinks that even if he were to stay awake, he wouldn’t be able to do much. His body is sore, the bones throughout his skeleton feel numb and worn, and he knows that if he were to try and sit up, it would leave take more energy than he had to give.

So he doesn’t move. For two reasons: one, because he doesn’t think his body can, and two, even if his body  _ could  _ shoot up and get going, there is a firm weight draped across his waist that is holding him down. 

It all comes crashing down on Bucky in a horrible mix of confusion and anger and hatred and-- and it’s eating him alive, physically churning his stomach and boiling his blood, setting him right on edge. Because he is no fool and he knows damn well who is behind him and whose arm that belongs to across his waist.

_ Steve _ . The sick, son of a bitch that is forcing him here. The madman who has kept Bucky restrained like an animal and locked away inside this house like-- like it was all perfectly fine and  _ normal _ . That’s what made Bucky see red.

How many days had they gone through that Bucky had pleaded for the man to let him go? How many times had Steve ignored Bucky beg for freedom and instead, asked him what he wanted to eat? Or if he was comfortable on the bed, or if the restraints were too tight, or if he was feeling well enough to take a shower and change into fresh clothes? The man was fucking insane, there was no doubt in Bucky’s mind about it. While Bucky cried for help, Steve was there telling him there was no need  _ for  _ help. Because  _ Bucky  _ was safe and  _ Bucky  _ was going to be taken care of and  _ Bucky  _ was going to be alright.

_ Like hell he was. _

His hands are tucked under his head but slowly, he pulls them out from under the pillow beneath his head, fists clenched tightly, and slides them down the sheet. But just as his hands pass his chin, the weight across Bucky’s waist shifts and suddenly there’s a vise around Bucky’s wrist, stopping them in their place. Bucky gasps at the pressure and the faint pain that shoots from the vulnerable skin. His breath gets lodged in his throat when the mass behind him moves.

“Goodmorning,” Steve whispers against the silence of the morning air as he sits up. The blonde’s hands are still tight against his wrists and Bucky stays frozen on the spot, drawn in tight on himself with tension. He refuses to look at Steve but he can physically feel the weight of blue eyes as they bore into the back of his head.

Bucky only listens to his heart pound in his ears. He loses track of the minutes that pass by in silence but it’s not like he cares. He’d rather let this silence go on forever than have to hear another single fucking word from Steve.

“Bucky…” Steve sighs and retracts himself away, sliding off of the bed. The absent of the larger man’s warmth is immediate but it’s a fucking blessing since Steve gets away from him. It’s nowhere near far enough but arms length away is better than being plastered against each other. At least then Steve can’t  _ touch  _ him. The feeling of Steve’s big arm around him is still too fresh in his skull that it sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine knowing that they had probably spent the entire night that way, with Steve holding and  _ touching  _ him. It makes him panic when he remembers all the days and nights that he lost already and that he honestly doesn’t know if Steve has been sleeping with him this whole time like they were-- were-- Bucky can’t finish his train of thought, that’s how  _ repulsed  _ he is.  

Steve walks towards the dressers, still being careful about exposing his back, and Bucky doesn’t spare the man a glance. The blonde could fall dead and even  _ still  _ Bucky wouldn’t look anywhere near him. Steve deserves  _ nothing  _ from him.

Bucky keeps his gaze trained on the wall and his hands stay frozen inches from his face where Steve had grabbed him, almost like they are petrified to move. They are, but Bucky doesn’t want to admit it. He is staring at the wall but he can see the dark contrast of mottled bruises along his wrists that are still in the beginning stages of healing but there are new features that taint his skin that hadn’t been there the day before. There is an arrangement of messy small cuts that litter across the surface of his hands. The blood is dried and he can make out the faint shine of an ointment that Steve must have put on him while he slept. The sight does strange things to him-- Steve, his kidnapper, is also Steve, his caregiver. Bucky is quick to focus back on the wall.

“You can talk to me, y’know. I thought we were making progress after yesterday,” Steve says. Bucky can see Steve through his peripherals as he leans against the dresser, his large, thick arms folded across his chest and he has the audacity to look and speak towards Bucky as if he’s a child throwing a tantrum. Bucky wants to  _ scream _ . He wants to cry and shout and run and fight but what good would it do him? He’s no idiot. He had scoped out the house and had seen the horrors that kept him locked inside. Only  _ Steve  _ knows the code to the doors. Only  _ Steve  _ knows where they are. If, by some godforsaken miracle, Bucky got the password and key and got the doors open, where would he go? They were in the middle of nowhere. Bucky could run, but how far? He could try to fight and overpower Steve but for how long could he hold his ground against the stronger man that’s watching him like a hawk? Steve would be ready the very second Bucky so much as twitched in his direction, the proof of mere minutes ago as a stark reminder that Steve was no damn idiot. The man had to have thought all of this through-- the doors, the windows, the restraints-- and that… that terrifies Bucky.

Bucky stays where he is and continues to stare in silence.

Steve sighs, “Then again… I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less since you smashed my furniture once I left.”

_ Bucky had the wooden stool gripped tightly in his hands. It had been an effort to lift it off the ground but he had managed anyways, ignoring his arms as they cried out in protest and how his lungs heaved with each movement he had made. With a desperate cry, he flung the stool forward towards the glass. The wood had shattered. The window hadn’t been scratched. He had felt the faint trickle down his fingers. He had looked down and saw the blood, saw where some of the splinters had sliced against his skin. _

Bucky swallows.

“I should have told you that the windows are reinforced. And the doors too, if you hadn’t figured yet. It would have saved you the trouble and the cuts,” Steve says. His voice is closer now and Bucky can hear as his feet shuffle across the carpet. Then, Steve steps right in front of his line of sight and without much choice, Bucky finally chances a glance up at the blonde. Steve is standing by the bed with a pair of sweatpants and shirt in his hands, and is looking down at him with care.

It makes Bucky sick to see that look on Steve’s face.

“Sorry about those,” the blonde nods apologetically towards Bucky’s hands. “I took care of them before I went to sleep but I think it would be good if you showered.” Steve holds out the clothes and Bucky glances down at the movement but makes no move to take them. Instead of reaching out, Bucky pulls his arms in closer towards his body, away from Steve.

Steve’s shoulders slump and there’s a sigh that pushes past his lips. “I don’t want to give you an ultimatum but if you don’t go take a shower, then I can put the restraints back on.”  

_ No _ . He doesn’t want those, anything but those. He can feel his pulse in his throat and it’s pounding hard--  _ boom, boom, boom _ . Bucky adverts his eyes, looking to the side, and Steve just keeps staring and staring.

Then, the blonde huffs, as if the silence had gotten to much to bare. “If you want to lay here--”

“Okay,” Bucky cuts in, speaking before he could think to say otherwise. His voice is raw and breathless but the thought of having to be put back into those restraints is enough to make him willing to do what Steve says. Anything that will make Steve  _ just shut up _ and stop talking to him and go the fuck away.

“Okay,” he whispers again, more to himself than Steve because it’s all the convincing he needs to pull himself out of the bed. Bucky’s eyes flicker up towards Steve as he slowly uses his arms to push himself up. Steve is there, watching, and his arms are out like he wants to reach out and help but is physically stopping himself. Bucky almost thinks the blonde looks pained watching him, but he knows its a stupid thought.

Steve can take his concern and shove it right up his ass. Because _ fuck him. _

Fuck  _ you _ , Steve.

The blonde waits until Bucky is fully propped against the headboard when he nods his head and smiles. “Okay,” Steve echoes. There’s a look on his face like he’s won something and every fiber in Bucky’s being wants nothing more than to claw that look off of his face.

Steve pays no attention to the scowl on Bucky’s face and instead, reaches out and places the clothing right by Bucky’s side. “I’m going to make breakfast while you shower,” he says. “Anything you want in particular?”

A moment passes in silence.

Bucky wants to ignore him but the blonde is hovering by his side and there’s a huge fucking chance that the man has another syringe stuffed in his back pocket and there’s no way in  _ hell  _ that Bucky wants to take the risk that the man won’t bathe him while he’s unconscious. He swallows down the string of curses and insults on his tongue that practically ache to be screamed, and he shakes his head.

Steve nods and clasps his hands together. “Okay, well, when your done just come into the kitchen. The bathroom is the door at the end of the hall.”

When it’s obvious that Bucky doesn’t plan on acknowledging what Steve has said, the man heads for the door with slow, dragging steps. Bucky sits motionless as Steve walks down the hall, then the steps, and into the kitchen. He holds his breath and listens as Steve opens the fridge and it’s then that he chooses to move.

* * *

Even as he locks the door behind him, Bucky sits down on the lid of the toilet and waits to see if Steve will break in. He’s not stupid enough to trust that Steve wouldn’t bust his way in if he wanted to and nothing as small as a lock will keep him away. Unlike the lock on the front and back doors of the house, the one that is on the bathroom door is dainty looking, enough that a simple twist of a knob and one hard push would end up with the thing cracking open. 

But as Bucky continues to sit there, staring unblinkingly at the door, it becomes clear that Steve is busy in the kitchen. Bucky can hear the faint clattering of pans, and can hear the faucet running. Maybe, just maybe, Steve had been telling him the truth.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath and stands up. The floor is cold underneath his feet and the joints in his legs buckle slightly from misuse, but he pads across the floor and leans against the counter. The bathroom is clean, almost methodically so, and Bucky can only wonder if Steve is always like this or if this too was all in preparation for holding him here.

He doesn’t know which is worse.

The counter is shiny under the lights and there’s nothing on the surface, which is a far difference from the counter in Bucky’s bathroom back at home. There’s no dirty clothing laying around either, no towels needing to be reused, no toiletries littered about; nothing is out of place because there is literally  _ nothing  _ in the bathroom. Bucky eyes the drawers under the sink. His hopes are low but he reaches down anyways and quietly pulls them open, one by one, praying that something will be there that he can use.

The first drawer has a tube of toothpaste and two toothbrush containers, one blue and one red, and when he takes a closer look, Bucky realizes that the red case has his name scrawled against it in black sharpie. He bites down on his lower lip when it’s obvious that Steve knew he was going to snoop.

But still, he picks up the toothbrush container and closes the first drawer shut before opening the next. Which, no surprise, is organized and has absolutely nothing of use. What does catch his eye is the grooming kit that has his name on a post it, along with the message:  _ It’s brand new. Feel free to use it. _

Bucky frowns down at the note. The writing, unlike the bathroom, is messy and the words are scribbled pen scratch that rivals that of an adolescent. It’s odd considering how well together Steve is, along with the house and everything else. Then again, Steve is the insane one who kidnaps people and holds them captive. The handwriting matches what’s on the inside-- chaotic and without reason. It fits Steve perfectly. The window into his fucking  _ soul _ .

Bucky pulls the kit out and pushes the drawer shut. The last one holds nothing but medical supplies and medications that have long, strange names that Bucky doesn’t begin to try and understand. In desperation he tries looks for the syringes that he has become accustomed to for the past week but there’s none there and he knows Steve wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep them in an unlocked bathroom drawer. Steve probably has his stash kept somewhere locked up just as tightly as his fucking house. Bucky turns to his side and briefly eyes the shelves that are across from the toilet, beside the shower. The towels are all folded perfectly the same, in precision, and there’s an unopened stick of deodorant along with a brush that looks brand new. Bucky doesn’t bother looking at the post-it note, knowing his name would be scrawled in that black ink.

Bucky turns away without sparing the shelf another glance but not before he reaches out and grabs two of the towels and then throws them towards the shower, watching as they land in a messy heap. It sends a strange feeling through him as he watches Steve’s work get undone.

But as Bucky takes his first step towards the shower, he catches his reflection in the mirror. It had been something he had avoided doing since he entered the bathroom but now that it has his attention, there’s no looking away.

Because what he sees  _ stops  _ him.

Not because he looks horrible. Not because his skin isn’t fresh and his hair isn’t combed. He stills because he doesn’t  _ appear  _ to be someone who has been kidnapped. Not really.

Thinking it may be a trick of his eyes, Bucky leans forward and presses up close to the mirror. Each breath he takes fogs up the glass but he doesn’t pay mind, and instead, he reaches up and gently presses his fingers into the skin of his cheeks, then the skin beneath his eyes. He frowns at the sight.

His cheeks aren’t hollow and his eyes aren’t gaunt, and his clothes may be rumpled but it could easily be mistaken for a restless night in the sheets. How he  _ feels  _ isn’t portrayed in how he  _ looks.  _ He can feel the week old grime covering his body, like a thin layer that coats his skin. His hair looks like a bird’s nest and the stubble along his jaw is more than what he prefers but other than that, he looks  _ normal _ . Fucking  _ normal _ .

He knows it’s because of Steve.

_ “I’ll take care of you.” _

Bucky shudders at the memory and exhales shakily through his nose. He blinks at the mirror and watches as his reflection blinks back. But as he keeps staring, he starts to see the changes. They’re small, almost non-existent, but he knows his face and body enough to see the differences. The discoloration along his wrists and arms are no shock, not anymore, and the faint shadows under his eyes aren’t drastic by any means. There’s nothing concerning, except for the barely there puncture mark at the junction of his elbow where Steve had slid that IV needle into his arm. And his eyes… they’re dull, lifeless, and almost unrecognizable to him. It’s almost like looking at a stranger, a twin with his face but a separate life of abuse and neglect that has left him broken. Bucky pulls away when it becomes too much.

Bucky takes a step away from the mirror and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He’s quick to tug it over his head. He’s still in the pajamas he wore to sleep that last night in his apartment and he knows he should feel relief that Steve hasn’t gone far enough to undress him but relief is a  _ far  _ stretch from anything he is remotely close to feeling at the moment. He angles his body to the side slightly and lifts his hand up to run his fingers over the ribs that the lack of food in his system has revealed. He’s always been thin, lithe, and has had a natural buildup of muscle that was quite pleasing to look at but he is nowhere near the brute strength that Steve has, nor the large buildup of his body. Bucky knows that the power that Steve has in his arms alone is enough to subdue him, having witnessed it multiple times by now as the blonde held him down and--.

Bucky exhales and can feel as his chin wobbles with built up emotion. He feels like he’s in a daze; somehow stuck in a world that isn’t quite a nightmare yet not his actual life either. He feels like he’s hovering somewhere in between; a horrid mixture of hell and heaven, freedom and captivity. It’s like a sick form of a universal prank. How many times had he watched those victims on Forensic Files that got kidnapped and swore things like that would  _ never  _ happen to him because he would fight his way out? How many times had he been so careful when he walked the streets at night just so no one could get the jump on him? Things like this shouldn’t happen to him or--or his friends and family. Things like this happened to  _ strangers _ . Their stories flash across the news and people would share their short moments of sympathy and that was it, people moved on, waiting until the next occurrence happened only a few months later.

But now… now it was  _ him _ . He was the next story.

Bucky doesn’t let his tears spill until he’s stripped and standing under the spray of the shower head. He let’s the sound of the splattering drops against the tiles drown out his sobs and he stands there, huddled in the corner until his skin starts to prune and he can smell the strong scent of bacon drift into the room.

He forces himself to get it together because if the food is ready then it will only be a matter of time before Steve comes in and drags him out, dressed or not. He was wasting time now, and time was something valuable.

Under the spray, the water is warm as it continues to slide down his body and Bucky scrubs at his eyes praying that the redness will go away by the time he gets out. The last thing he wants is for Steve to see him being weak, knowing that the man has already seen him at his lowest. Bucky clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, focusing everything he has on the pressure of the water. Slowly, he can feel the tension slowly unknot itself under the streams. It feels… it feels  _ good _ . Like it’s recharging every cell in Bucky’s body and he wants to just sit there for the rest of the time that he has. Whether it be days or hours, Bucky just wants to stand there and drown under the warm water and keep Steve locked out, forever and ever.

But then he remembers the small lock on the door and he re-opens his eyes, bliss abruptly forgotten. He forces himself to finish his shower, wanting to be dressed and dry by the time Steve barges in.

Bucky reaches for the shampoo and lathers it into his palms before he rakes his fingers through his hair. His motions are quick and done without thinking but when the aroma catches in his nose, it makes him pull the bottle close to his face and deeply inhale. The smell is like a fogged memory. It’s familiar yet foreign, and smells like sharp, fresh mint. Bucky takes a deeper breath and feels the aroma catch in his chest cavity, spreading through him like a breeze of fresh air.

It’s the same smell that he has grown accustomed to for the last week, the one he wakes up and falls asleep to. The smell that has surrounded his senses and the sheets on the bed and has ingrained itself into the clothes he has worn all this time.

_ Steve _ .

Bucky closes his eyes in defeat and tips the bottle over to squeeze more into his palms. He rakes his fingers through his hair and feels the shampoo sink into his skull. Now,  _ Steve’s  _ smell is his smell too.

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

Steve stands hunched at the kitchen counters with his hands splayed out flat against the surface and a pile of pancakes and bacon in between. He’s listening closely for the door of the bathroom to open and the faintest sounds of Bucky’s footsteps against the stairs.

The shower had turned off almost fifteen minutes ago. He keeps watching the clock on his wrist as each minute passes by and it takes every ounce of his will power not to go check if Bucky is alright. He’s trying to give the younger man space but the absence is almost eating him up and he keeps telling himself that if Bucky doesn’t come out in one more minute, then he’s going in.

But each time that minute ends, he tells himself he’ll give Bucky another. It’s been over seven of those now and Steve’s teeth are pressed hard into his bottom lip, his fingers drumming restlessly against the counter top.

Just as minute eight ticks by, he huffs and spins around on his heel, ready to glide up the steps and into the bathroom and make sure Bucky is okay because if he’s not--

Steve doesn’t finish the thought because as he turns around, Bucky reaches the bottom of the steps. For a long, quiet moment, all Steve can do is stare. He lets his gaze trail up and down Bucky’s body, closely looking for any harm done. It would have been hard to do given that Steve had taken all of the sharp objects out of the bathroom but a man on a mission can be a dangerous thing. Steve pays close attention to the pale skin visible and sees it all unblemished apart from the bruises.

With Bucky’s health assessment under control, Steve let’s his gaze linger on the clothes covering Bucky’s body. They’re  _ his  _ and the sight of Bucky  _ in  _ them makes him want to whimper and hold the brunet close. Lord knows how many times he had envisioned someone else wearing his clothes, what the sight would do to him-- how right he had been as he feels his heart stutter in his chest.

The t-shirt is baggy on Bucky, making him look so much smaller than he actually is, and the pants are too long but Steve thinks he looks so fragile and vulnerable that all he wants to do is wrap his arms around him and take him to bed and protect him from the world.

The shower had done wonders for Bucky. His dark hair is still damp but it’s combed and neat and his face is freshly trimmed, making him look like the Bucky that Steve had watched for so long. He looks  _ beautiful _ . His Bucky.

Steve smiles softly at him and nods towards the table, gathering the plates in his hands as he walks over. “Feel better?” he asks.

Bucky hasn’t looked away from him and hasn’t moved from where he was plastered against the wall near the steps. His eyes are sharper than usual, more focused, which is a great sign considering the amount of drugs that have been pumping through his system the last few days.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He follows Steve’s every move instead.

Steve tries a different approach. “Pancakes, eggs, and bacon. I made a lot so I hope you’re hungry,” Steve says. He places the plates down onto the table and walks back to get two glass cups and the pitcher of orange juice. There’s a large supply of vitamins that Steve dissolved into Bucky’s cup but are unnoticeable to the naked eye.  

When he returns back to the table, Bucky still hasn’t moved from his spot.

Steve sits down and makes a show of piling both of their plates with a hearty amount of each portion that Steve made. He reaches over and sets Bucky’s plate across from him, right next to his glass of orange juice. He’s moving as slowly as he can so that Bucky can see that he is no threat. Every action and glance carefully made for Bucky to be as comfortable as possible.

“You can sit at the table Buck,” he says. “You don’t want your food to get cold, do you?

He knows that even if the food was to get cold, he would jump up and make everything fresh again just so Bucky could have something warm in his stomach. But his words do the trick anyways and slowly,  _ so  _ slowly, Bucky takes that glorious step away from the wall and towards the table.

Steve stays put as Bucky lowers himself in his chair. Bucky’s gaze is quick to flick down to the plate, then back up to Steve. They both watch each other and Steve, hoping to get Bucky to actually eat, picks up his fork and starts to cut into his food. Each bite that Steve takes, he glances across the table waiting for Bucky to do the same but the brunet is silently staring down at his plate. Bucky’s hands are underneath the table and his cheeks are hollowed slightly enough that it tells Steve he’s biting the inside of his cheeks.

Steve deflates and clears his throat. “I’ll be leaving to work soon,” he informs Bucky. He’s watching the younger man so closely that the small nod Bucky makes is definitely there and not something Steve is making up. “But I have a short day so I should be back around two thirty. Maybe…” Steve feels his heart rate kick up and can feel the flush in his cheeks. “Maybe we can watch a movie on the tv before dinner or--or after, if that’s what you prefer. I can pick up--”

Bucky suddenly looks up and his eyes are practically burning as he gazes across the table. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is soft yet strangely strong at the same time, and it pins Steve to his chair.

“Doing what?” Steve asks carefully in return. There’s a lot of things that Bucky could be referring to.

“ _ This _ ,” Bucky looks pointely around the room. “You. Keeping me here. Locked away.”

_ Oh _ .

So Bucky was going back to  _ that  _ conversation. Steve had thought he had made it pretty crystal clear. He had thought Bucky had understood.

“We’ve been over this,” Steve responds. He reaches out for his glass of orange juice and takes a heavy swallow, yet his mouth still feels dry.  “I told you that--”

Bucky brings his hands up on the table and Steve watches as his hands shake, practically vibrating. “I have friends a-and family, and they’re going to know that something’s wrong. They’ll send the police looking. They’ll find--”

Steve sets his glass back down. Bucky flinches when he does so and Steve frowns as he realizes that he had put the glass down with more force than necessary. When he looks over at Bucky, he makes sure his voice is solid and firm.

“They won’t find anything. I promise you, Bucky. I sent a text towards Nat that you’re going out of town for a while to go visit your family. I texted your family that you were going with to a writer’s convention for the next few weeks and that the service wasn’t going to be that great.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, bringing his hands with him. “You have my phone?” he whispers at Steve.

Steve nods. “I couldn’t leave it back in your apartment just in case your friends went to look. A phone left behind is practically a red flag.”

Bucky shoots him a glare, and his arms are pulled tightly across his chest, like he’s hugging himself together. “So you just took it like you took--” Bucky’s voice cuts off.  _ Took me _ , goes unsaid but the words hang in the air between them.

“I had to,” Steve reassures him. “I have a whole bag filled with your stuff. I took it all so that you wouldn’t have to worry about it and so I wouldn’t need to go back and grab the things you would need later on.”

“What else did you take?”

Steve sighed. He wanted Bucky to eat, not interrogate him.“I took enough, Bucky. Laptop, phone, some of your clothes… your books too.”

“Where are they?”

“Stored away. Safely, if that concerns you,” Steve explains.

Bucky’s arms wrap around himself tighter and he picks his legs up onto the chair, putting his knees to his chest and setting up a second layer of protection against Steve. He doesn’t look away as he glares at Steve. “I want them,” Bucky demands. “Now.”

Steve doesn’t miss a beat. “No,” he answers. Steve picks his fork back up and jabs into his pancake. He doesn’t feel hungry anymore, not with Bucky looking at him like that.

“You have no right,” Bucky whispers at him.

Bucky isn’t wrong, Steve knows that. Everything that he is doing here isn’t normal and isn’t  _ sane  _ but this is Bucky and him. This was the only way that he could have Bucky, alone and together, with the rest of the world forgotten. This is how it is supposed to be. Him and Bucky. _ Bucky and Steve. _

“That might be true,” he says back. “But that’s how it’s going to be for the time being.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at him. Steve can see the deviance shine through like a double edged sword, cutting and brutal. “Who the fuck do you think you are that you can do this to someone?” the brunet seethes. “I want my stuff. You have  _ no  _ right to do this!”

Steve lets him yell. He let’s Bucky fume while he sits in silence, letting the younger man’s words plow into him. He sits calmly as Bucky continues to shout at him but then, Steve watches as the brunet’s chest begins to heave erratically. Bucky’s getting too upset.

Steve knows he needs to calm him down before things start to escalate. This was supposed to be breakfast, not a fight. He had thought that the shower would have made Bucky feel better and at least made the younger man feel not so on edge. But it’s almost like Bucky was suped up with this new found energy and ready to do everything in his power to go against Steve.

Steve admired the tenacity even if it was a rebellion against him. He took a deep breath as he held Bucky’s attention. “I said no, Bucky,” he said. He made sure there would be no questioning of what he was saying because Bucky  _ needed  _ to understand where the lines would lay from here on out. There would be no more of questioning Steve’s judgement, however skewed Bucky thought it may be.

“Just leave it at that before you work yourself up. Your body is still getting off the medication.”

Before Steve could say or do anything else, Bucky shot up from his chair. “SHUT UP!” he bellowed. “Shut up, Steve! This is all your fucking fault!”  Bucky swiped his arms across the table and the contents were sent flying to the side. Orange juice splattered against the walls and floor, the plates went crashing to the ground. Steve leaned back, eyes wide as he regarded the brunet.

Bucky sidestepped the mess easily and ran up to the door. He began tugging on the keypad and the door knob, reached out his arms and started to yank on the metal bar. His movements were sporadic and wild. “You--have--no--right,” he huffed between each jerk of his arms. “Let me out!  _ Let me out _ !”

Steve quietly lifted himself up from the table and began to stride towards Bucky. The brunet’s back was towards him and Bucky’s motions were loud enough that Steve doubted he heard him approaching.

“Bucky, stop. You’re going to overexert yourself. You need to calm down before you hurt yourself again.”

The young man whirled around, eyes wide in disbelief. “Calm down?” he echoed. He was watching Steve closely and Steve held his arms up placadedly but Bucky was having none of it. Bucky’s expression was wild. “Hurt  _ myself _ ?” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Fuck you,” he continued on. He’s still yanking on the door and every step that Steve takes, Bucky somehow presses himself further away even when there is nowhere to go. “Everything that’s happened to me is because of  _ you _ !”

Bucky looks like a caged animal, ready to strike at the first sign of danger. But all Steve can see is how his pupils have dilated and the grey-blue color of his iris’ are practically nonexistent. Bucky’s chest is heaving even more and his breathing is labored. Steve knows he needs to put an end to this and  _ now _ .

Steve rushes up and closes the space between them, trapping Bucky against the door with his arms on both sides of the younger man. There’s a tussle as Bucky fights against him, an array of elbow jabs and flinging arms.

This is something new, Steve realizes immediately. Body against body as they both stand tall. Somehow Bucky feels smaller standing up than he does laying in the bed. For Steve, it’s easy to get Bucky’s arms restrained at his sides and his body pushed up against the door, restricting his movement.

Bucky is practically vibrating beneath Steve’s hands. He can feel the erratic heartbeat pound against Bucky’s skin and Steve knows how dangerous this is. Bucky is supposed to be taking it easy, recovering, not fighting like he’s battling for his life. The brunet’s heart is fighting four times as hard and it’s not good.

Steve has Bucky caged in with a forearm pressed against his chest. He’s desperate now and knows that action needs to be taken now before Bucky falls into cardiac arrest. Steve leans more of his weight forward to give something harder for Bucky to fight against. It doesn’t stop Bucky’s struggles and Steve quickly uses his free hand to reach down and grab the syringe in his pocket. It’s a failsafe and there hasn’t been a minute that passed that Steve didn’t have one ready to go. For moments just like this.

Bucky’s breathing is harsh and it’s all Steve can hear as he pressed himself close. He doesn’t want to give Bucky more drugs but he isn’t being given an option.

“Bucky, please don’t make me do this,” he pleads.

The brunet buckles against him and is trying to kick his legs out but Steve presses fully against him and uses his feet to trap Bucky’s heels against the door.

“G-go to h-hell,” Bucky chokes out.

Steve brings the needle up and the very moment Bucky sees it, his eyes go wide and frantic. “No!” he whimpers. “N-no, stop! Stop!”

The dosage is nowhere near what is usually is but Steve doesn’t need him out for the entire day. There’s only a fraction of the typical amount, enough to force Bucky to calm down for an hour at max. Enough to get the young man back under control.

Bucky shakes his head back and forth like that would stop Steve, and it almost does as he takes in the desperation and fear that shines in those beautiful eyes. The fright is almost too much to handle because Steve doesn’t want  _ that _ . He wants everything but that fear.

But he also wants Bucky alive than dead, and at the rate Bucky is going, he’s going to undergo cardiac arrest in the next half hour if his heart rate doesn’t revert back to normal.

Steve moves his arm from Bucky’s chest and snakes it under Bucky’s neck, flattening his hand against the back of the brunet’s skull to protect him from smashing it into the door. Steve cards his fingers through the soft brown locks and forces Bucky’s head to the side, bringing his other arm up and uncapping the syringe with his teeth before sliding the needle into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky gasps at the puncture and he flings himself forward, fighting against Steve twice as hard. Although Bucky’s still running his body harder than what he should be, it’s a good thing that he’s still fighting as it will cause the medication to pump through his system twice as fast, shooting the drugs faster through his bloodstream.

Bucky’s hands fist themselves into the material of Steve’s shirt, right against his sternum and he’s holding on tight yet also trying to push Steve away. “Let me go,” Bucky pleads again.

His grip is starting to lose its strength and Steve can feel him starting to slip in his hold, can physically see Bucky’s eyes become unfocused. Even though Steve doesn’t want to, he obeys Bucky’s wishes. The medication is already in effect and he gently grips Bucky’s upper arms as he slides to the ground.

* * *

Bucky

* * *

 

His veins felt like ice. He could feel the prickling sensation run through his body as he slowly lost feeling of his toes and fingers. His head… his head was starting to pound and when he tried to think, the thoughts were fuddled and he couldn’t understand what was happening or why the room felt like it was so far away.

Bucky’s back was pressed against the cold floor and he stared through blurry eyes as Steve came into view, towering over him. He was trying to push himself as far away as he could, using the palms of his hands and bare feet to slide himself out from between Steve’s legs but he couldn’t find purchase against the smooth wooden floor.

Steve’s legs were locked on both sides of his hips and Bucky couldn’t move, couldn’t get away, and the room was swimming before his eyes and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight. All he could make out was the hazy figure of Steve above him and with desperation, Bucky lifted his arms to push uselessly at Steve’s shins.

“P-please,” Bucky whispered. His voice was weak, like him, and his jaw trembled as Steve reached down. Bucky wanted to push him away but when he tried to move his arms, they wouldn’t cooperate and they felt heavy and foreign like they didn’t belong to him. He could hardly make Steve out, but he could see as the shadowy figure slid down onto the floor beside him and felt as he was effortlessly gathered into strong arms.

Bucky was pulled into Steve’s chest and he could smell the shampoo, could smell  _ himself,  _ as Steve leaned against the wall, pulling Bucky with him.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed into his ear, the whisper sending a warmth shiver down Bucky’s spine. One of Steve’s large hands slid carefully into Bucky’s hair, the other curving against his spine and pulling him even closer. “You’re mine now, remember?”

Steve’s grip tightened around him and Bucky wanted to shout and scream but his mouth wouldn’t move and even though he fought against the pull, his lids felt too heavy and nothing he could do could keep them open.

Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut and Bucky’s world went black. The last thing he could feel was Steve’s arms holding him and the warmth that enveloped them whole. Around them, the mint was stronger than ever. 


	5. June, 2015

June 7, 2015

* * *

 

“Please.”

“No, Bucky.”

* * *

June 10, 2015

* * *

 

“I swear I wouldn’t say anything to the police. Or anyone. You let me go and we would never have to see each other again,” Bucky says, picking his head up from his knees and looking at Steve across the kitchen.

Steve keeps chopping away at the array of vegetables that he has spread out evenly across his fancy cutting board. There’s a sharp, silver knife in his hands and his knuckles are pale white with the force he holds onto it with. Bucky can only wonder if Steve’s holding it that tight in fear that Bucky may leap up and try to fight for it, or if Steve is just uncomfortable with the conversation.

Either way, Steve is silent for a long time-- long enough that Bucky counts the wooden lines, curves, and knots on top of Steve’s dining table. He recounts them and traces the figures with the pads of his fingers, waiting.

Then, Steve turns to look at him from over his shoulder. “I believe you Bucky,” Steve finally answers. His wide shoulders deflate as he exhales a heavy sigh. “But that’s the problem. I don’t want there to be a day when I _don’t_ see you.”

Bucky could say something back. He thinks he wants to, but he also thinks he could scream. And he could fight. He could say how fucking ridiculous that is, how Steve doesn’t know the first fucking _clue_ about him.

But he doesn’t.

It’s useless to, because everything that he says to Steve just goes in one ear and out the other. Over and over again like the words Bucky speaks has no meaning.

Bucky lowers his forehead back onto his knees and doesn’t bother saying another thing. Afterall, it’s not as if Steve would actually listen.  

* * *

June 12, 2015

* * *

 

“You know your plan won’t work forever.”

Steve looks up at that and his brows scrunch in confusion as he turns towards Bucky, who’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Steve had been reading one of _Bucky’s_ books and although Bucky couldn’t care less about Steve’s opinion, it’s been gnawing at his insides since he took a peak at the cover and read those all to familiar words. Since then, he had been resolute on not paying the blond any attention and kept his stare focused on the tv screen as it displayed the news. Bucky tried to ignore him, truly he did, but everytime Steve turned the page it ate at him that much more until he just _couldn’t_ anymore.

“And what plan would you be referring to?”

Bucky scoffed. For Steve thinking he was so fucking smart, he sure did act like he was pretty fucking stupid too.

“My family is going to find out eventually, so are my friends. They’ll realize that something doesn’t add up and then they’ll start looking for me and find that I’m nowhere to be seen,” Bucky clips out. “I’m not the kind of person to go awol and they need--”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Steve interrupts him. “I’ll take care of it, Buck.”

Steve has the _audacity_ to give him a nod of reassurement and goes back to the book with not a care in the world. He had spoken so easily and so calmly and Bucky… Bucky’s at a loss of what to do. His lips part, ready to spew his argument, but the words die in his throat, getting choked off by the sudden onslaught of feelings that pounce on him. There’s a tightness in his chest as if his lungs are constricting on themselves and he can feel the slight pressure behind his eyes, can see the tears that are stuck in his sockets as his vision begins to blur.

He won’t give Steve the satisfaction of seeing him cry, not anymore. Bucky forces his head forward again, clamps down on his jaw to keep his chin from wobbling. He tightly clasps his hands together and tries to ignore how badly they shake.

His fingernails cut into his palms yet still, it’s not enough.

* * *

June 17, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

He’s quick to find that the high points of his days consists of the very _second_ Steve leaves for work. Once that door closes behind him, Bucky gets the house to himself-- the quiet and emptiness and the _isolation_ that are his only companions in the world anymore-- and it’s like a blessing in disguise.  

He doesn’t care though. Steve is gone, even if only for a few hours, and that itself is the only thing that Bucky takes comfort in because during those _glorious_ hours that Steve is away, it’s almost like Bucky can breathe properly again, and he can _think_ without having his thoughts stray to the man that is always near, always _hovering_ over him and forcing himself into everything that Bucky is.

With Steve gone, Bucky can almost function like he did before…all of this.

He’s lost track of the days but he knows it’s been a while. Probably a long while but it isn’t as if Bucky has his phone to check the date or, well, anything else. He could ask Steve and maybe the man would answer, but then that would mean that Bucky would have to talk to the asshole and that’s just something he wants to avoid at all cost. Bucky also knows that he gives Steve the silent treatment just to watch his features fall every time he steps through that damn door. It’s almost cruel how Bucky enjoys it; watching Steve frown, watching how his bright smile and eyes close off when he’s met with silence, how his face draws tight and he suddenly looks so much older than he really is.

But what does Steve expect?

He’s made this grave, now he has to lie in it. If Steve has to pout like a fucking toddler when Bucky doesn’t immediately jump up and answer him with smiles and hugs, he’s pretty well off if that’s all he suffers with. Bucky could be worse-- he should be the _worst_ fucking nightmare that Steve has ever faced, but he isn’t, because he’s. not. dumb.

He has to have a clear head and if Steve keeps jutting that needle into his skin, it’s not gonna happen. If Bucky wants any chance of escape, he has to stay sharp and ready, and he can’t do that if he’s fucked up.

He can’t run. He can’t fight.

He’s fucking useless, is what he is.  

So, Bucky chooses his battles wisely.

When Steve is gone, Bucky examines the house, turns it upside down and inside out trying to find a way out. When Steve is there, Bucky’s silent and closed off, and always keeps a good distance from the man as much as he can. He tries his damn hardest but sometimes Steve is… Steve.

Bucky wishes there was a clear distinction between the time Steve is present to the times that he isn’t, but the truth is, there’s not. Because even when Steve isn’t _physically_ present, he’s still there, all around the house and everywhere Bucky looks, he sees _Steve_.

The halls are empty, with nothing on the walls that can tell Bucky who Steve is. There is no family portraits or artwork and that tells Bucky things more than it doesn’t. Every room that Bucky looks through, it’s all bare and empty, with nothing personal and nothing that could possibly hold any meaning. It’s everything that a family house shouldn’t be. Nothing gives him the answers he need that could explain why Steve is doing any of this. He _looks_ like a normal guy, but fuck was he anything than that.

But no matter how long Bucky stays in that house, alone, sitting silently or thrashing around, it all comes shuttering down once he hears the sound of Steve’s vehicle pull up, the familiar jingle of keys, and the faint whoosh of the door opening back up. Then, it’s all _Steve_ again. The man shoves his way back in, filling the air with his noise and smell and voice and-- and Bucky is _forced_ to deal with him all over again.

Their days are on an endless loop and no matter how hard Bucky tries to ignore him, it’s impossible. His brain screams everytime that damn door opens up and he feels it all pile up around him again-- the utter hopelessness that gets higher and higher until it suffocates him and he’s left gasping for air.

Bucky will sit silently through it all and if Steve recognizes the turmoil that brews inside Bucky’s skull, he says nothing, just keeps flashing those perfect teeth and soft smiles like it makes everything better. If Steve can _pretend_ that everything around them is perfectly fucking fine, then Bucky can _pretend_ the guy just isn’t fufcking there.

If only it were that simple though.

Suddenly, as if on cue, Bucky blinks back into reality and turns his head towards the door as he hears the faint hum of an engine pull up. In the low light of the house, the metal bar fastened across the door shines bright and beside it, the digital keypad sits and mocks him.

He knows that if he were to walk right up to them, they both would be smooth and stainless, with not a single scratch on them. Despite everything.

Bucky’s eyes trail downward and he catches sight of smaller flashes of silver. Just hours prior, Bucky had stood at that door for what felt like a lifetime and had used every fork and spoon he found in the drawers to try and force the bar off. Each one he had grabbed he had tried to wedge it between the bar and the door, using all the strength he had into prying the two apart. He had pulled as long as he could, scratching at the metal and throwing one utensil after another into an endless heap on the floor after they all bent backwards at the force of Bucky’s hands. He had kept prying until he could no longer feel his fingers.

No matter how hard he tried, it hadn’t worked-- _nothing_ ever worked.

 _Today_ had been Steve’s utensils. _Yesterday_ had been smashing another one of Steve’s stools against the windows. The day _before_ that, Bucky had watched as Steve swept up all the glass shards of every plate and cup he owned. Bucky had known glass plates weren’t going to do him much good but it hadn’t stopped him from playing one-man catch with the windows just for the hell of it. It had actually felt pretty fucking good to release that energy, if Bucky were to be honest.

Still, he was going to keep trying. He had no idea what tomorrow’s devices would be but it’s not like he was lacking things to destroy. It was just that whatever models Steve had boughten, they were prime material. Bucky didn’t want to consider the high possibility that the door was never going to open by his hands alone because he just _refused_ to believe it. Mostly because he was scared of what would happen if he did.

Hope, however fragile it already was, was vital to keep him fighting for his freedom.

Just then, the front door opens up with a soft click. And there _he_ is.

Steve walks in with that fucking look on his face and his perfect smile, and all Bucky can do is watch as the large man quickly closes the door shut with his foot. The thud of the lock clicking back into place makes Bucky want to flinch.

He doesn’t.

He’s gotten used to it already.

“I brought Chinese,” Steve says as he enters the house. When he takes a step forward his foot lands on one of the bent backwards forks and he glances down in confusion. Steve frowns as he inspects the floor and the ruined silverware but like always, Steve acts like none of it’s there. He picks up his blond head and says nothing about it, only steps over the mess at the door like it just doesn’t exist.

That’s perhaps what drives Bucky insane the most. Part of him wishes that Steve would lash out or strike him or yell, but the blond always stays calm and collected, refined to the perfect fucking T. At least then this would all make sense because no one kidnapped people and fucking took care of them. Normal kidnappers kept people hostage, tortured them, _killed_ them-- not the things that Steve did.

Bucky’s gaze slides over towards Steve as he continues into the room. He isn’t speaking but his ears listen carefully to the steps that Steve takes further into the kitchen. Bucky draws his knees tighter towards his chest as Steve approaches.

“Bucky?” he calls out, standing in the area where the living room extends from the kitchen. Bucky isn’t looking at him, but he can see the way Steve’s shadow looms over the carpet. He’s squished into the corner of Steve’s couch, and Bucky bites down on his tongue as the seconds tick by and he can still feel Steve’s gaze searing into his face.

“Bucky, did you hear me?” Steve speaks again. Bucky wants to shout that it’s impossible _not_ to hear him. The man literally never stops talking once he gets home.

Bucky doesn’t look as Steve steps into the living room. He doesn’t look when Steve sits down on the couch next to him either, only feels when the cushion dips beneath Steve’s weight and hears the ruffle of the plastic bags as Steve sets them on the coffee table in front of them.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I kinda got a bit of everything,” Steve says with a grin. He’s not lying either. The bag he puts down looks like it can feed a small army, not just two grown men. “I’m sure there’s something you’ll like in here.”

Bucky scratches at his thumb while Steve unloads the bag. As Steve sorts through the take out boxes, Bucky lets his gaze slide towards the door once more. He eyes the keypad and the metal bar and knows that all of his struggles will all be for nothing unless he learns the password to the door. The key will be easy enough as Steve usually just tosses them onto the counter, without the slightest care in the world since he knows Bucky doesn’t know the code.

If he wanted to, Bucky could try and attack Steve, knock him out, or kill him, but unless he knows the password, he’ll die in here along with his kidnapper. Everything Bucky thinks of, it’s like Steve had already thought of it in advance. Every escape route is cut off. Every tool, taken. His freedom, _gone_.

He’s fucked is what he is. He knows that Steve will carry that code to the grave before he gives it over. So the answer is simple, really, in a complicated and practically impossible way-- if Bucky wants to make it out of this house alive, he’s going to need that damn password.

“Do you like Chinese food?” Steve’s voice brings him back rather quickly. Bucky pulls his attention from the door and settles it onto Steve, blinking. Steve wants him to talk. He can see it in the blue depths of his iris’.

His response hangs on the tip of his tongue. A simple _yes_ is all Steve needs. It should be easy, but it’s not. Truthfully, Bucky is downright terrified of saying the wrong thing that might spur Steve into action again. He’d rather die than be injected again. He loses too much time when he goes under, and the way his mind and body feel when he wakes up is like it takes twice the effort into getting his brain to function with his limbs. Then again, maybe that’s what Steve wants-- for Bucky to stay discombobulated, with or without following Steve’s wishes.

Steve clears his throat and Bucky jolts at how close the sound is to him. They’re on the same couch with only an arm’s length in between them. And Steve… Steve is watching him, waiting.

Bucky jerks his head in response. “Yes,” he breathes out. His voice is faint and it sounds almost foreign to his own ears. He almost doesn’t recognize it, only knows that it’s his since he’s opening his mouth and forcing the word through. But other than that… not speaking for the past few days has taken its toll.

However, speaking to Steve for the first time in days does the trick. It’s like a switch has been flipped with how Steve morphs before his very eyes. The blond straightens up and when he smiles, the effect washes over his body almost beautifully. Steve seems lighter, with his face and eyes open and everything about him looks so _gentle_ and kind, and if they were to have ever met in the outside world, Bucky would have _willingly_ gone up and spoken to the guy. Everything about Steve is welcoming and sweet.

Everything about Steve is everything that Bucky had ever wanted in someone else, someone for _him_.

Of course Bucky knows better and he balks at even letting himself _consider_ Steve could ever be right for him. Everything is really starting to fuck with him.

“Good,” Steve shoots him a proud grin. Bucky forces himself to look away from Steve’s eyes. They feel hypnotic sometimes, like just by looking into them Steve somehow get’s Bucky’s sympathy and compliance. Maybe because when Bucky makes himself stay truthful, he can see the emotions that brew there; the care and compassion, the kindness, the _love_. No one has ever looked at him like that before, apart from his ma and sister.

And that… Bucky knows that means something and that _something_ isn’t a topic he wants to divulge himself into.

Bucky watches Steve’s hands instead as he starts to check the contents of the take out containers. Bucky recognizes the name of the restaurant as a place in downtown Brooklyn, just a few blocks away from his house. It’s a place Bucky has gone more times than he can count and he can only wonder if it’s a pure coincidence or if Steve had known that all along too. If Steve had taken the time to go through his apartment, it wouldn’t have taken much for Steve to see the restaurant’s take out menu stuck on his refrigerator.

“Looks like we’ll be using chopsticks tonight,” Steve says with a laugh.

Bucky glances up and he frowns as Steve’s laugh echoes in his eardrums. The blond _always_ does this, tries and fails to lighten the mood. All it ever does is make things so much more uncomfortable and turns the air into something thick and tense.

Steve, of course, never notices it. He doesn’t right then either and instead, hands over one of the cartons. “Is broccoli and chicken okay? There’s Mongolian pork too, and some eggro--”

“It’s fine,” Bucky cuts him off, reaches out and takes the carton Steve’s holds out to him. Bucky quickly pulls it into his lap, letting his fingers dance along the bottom edges. When Steve hands him the chopsticks, Bucky is careful not to touch fingers.

Steve exhales heavily and Bucky pretends he doesn’t see the way Steve’s shoulders sag in disappointment. He tries even harder to ignore the painful lurch his stomach does thinking Steve’s getting ready to reach into his pocket and pull out a syringe. Bucky’s body draws up tight and he watches Steve’s hands like a hawk, getting ready to lurch up from the couch and run for the bathroom. It’s the only room in the entire house that has a lock.

But Steve’s hands don’t go to his pockets.

All he does is reach for his own chopsticks. “So,” Steve breaks the silence after a short while, “what did you do today?”

Steve asks that question every time he gets to the house. In return, everytime he asks, Bucky acts like he doesn’t. He’s gotten away with it this far, so just keeps doing it.

Bucky stabs a piece of chicken with his chopstick and shoves it into his mouth, pretending that he’s too busy eating to reply. It takes a long time before Steve sighs once again, and drops the attempt of conversation all together.

* * *

June 20, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

He can’t sleep.

It’s the dead of night and he’s laying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it has personally offended him.

Truthfully, he hasn’t had a good night’s rest for a good week now, but it isn’t like he can do much and really, he may be tired but it’s not the type of tiredness that sleep can cure. Physically, yeah, he’s lacking on a few days worth of sleep but _emotionally_ , he’s an entirely different story.

It has nothing to do with him. Instead, it has everything to do with the brunet at his side.

The house is dead quiet as always apart from the soft sounds of Bucky’s breathing as he sleeps. He’s been out for a few hours now and part of Steve envies how easy it is that he falls asleep. Then again… it’s because of him that Bucky sleeps so heavily. Unlike Steve, Bucky is drugged up on high quality sleeping aids. Bucky doesn’t know, of course, because that would only bring up another shit storm ready to blow over. But what else was Steve supposed to do? Slipping sleeping aids into Bucky’s drink every night was the only way that the younger man would actually fall asleep and _stay_ asleep deeply enough that Steve could hoist him up to the bed.

Steve hadn’t automatically fallen on depending on more medications but there was only so much of accidentally waking Bucky up during the night and having to fight or watch him run to the bathroom and lock himself in it that Steve could take. Ever since he had taken Bucky off of the stronger meds that kept him fully knocked out, it wasn’t as easy to get his arms around him and pull him close during the night hours. The sleep aids helped but there were still nights when the faintest feeling of contact would jolt Bucky awake and he’d push himself as far away from Steve as he could, out of it just enough that his first instinct wasn’t to lock himself down the hall. But sometimes, when the aids had hours to go into effect, Bucky’s body allowed itself to be touched without waking him up. Steve hasn’t actually moved past the faint touches to actually build the courage to pull Bucky close though, not like how they used to sleep.

The lack of warmth has been unsettling. The feeling of skin on skin not being there anymore has made him restless. Somehow, Steve had gotten used to holding Bucky through the night and now, with his arms empty and cold, it just feels… wrong.

 _Too_ wrong.

Steve takes a deep breath and turns his head to the left, eyeing his partner in bed. Bucky is laying face down and he has his arms shoved under his head and pillow, with the sheets pulled up to his chin. With the weeks that have passed, Steve has spent a lot of time watching Bucky sleep and even since that first night, Steve watched every little twitch that he did in his sleep, every little movement and sleepy sound that left Bucky’s pretty lips.

Bucky’s absolutely adorable, really-- with the way he clings to his pillow or when he had wrapped his limbs around Steve on those earlier nights, and how his messy hair fans out around his head like a ethereal halo. He’s always scrunched up too, with his legs bent and his limbs tangled in the warmth of the blanket when Steve isn’t there to provide it for him.

Steve let’s his gaze rake over Bucky’s face. When the brunet is asleep, he looks so peaceful and young, and it makes Steve’s chest swell with so much affection that he feels as if he’s on the brink of crying his fucking heart out with how lucky he is to have him there. Steve brings his arms out from under the covers and he scoots himself further up on the bed to prop himself up slightly to get a better look. Steve reaches over and slowly let’s his hand inch closer to Bucky’s face. His hand hovers inches away from the brunet’s face

Bucky’s beautiful.

So, fucking beautiful that it makes Steve want to cry.

Instead of crying, however, he decides upon something else. Steve twists at the waist and reaches under his pillow to unplug his phone from the charger. He’s quick to unlock the device and open the camera app, angling his body to face Bucky.

He snaps his first picture and holds his breath as the flash of his camera shines over Bucky. He stills instantly, waiting for Bucky to jump to life but after one moment, then two, Bucky stays asleep, not even twitching at the disturbance. Steve exhales softly, changes the angle of his phone and takes another picture. Then another, and another, until the room looks like a lightning storm with the amount of flashes popping through.

But when Steve looks down into his phone and sees the pictures, he remembers the framed photographs on Sam’s desk with him and Riley smiling together, wrapped up in each other’s arms, and it’s what Steve _wants_ for himself too-- him and Bucky, together.

Steve lays back down on his side of the bed and props himself up on the pillows that will give him an easy angle to snap the pictures as well as hold Bucky. He gets a thrill in the process, knowing how silly he’s being yet also knowing that he’s about to have pictures of him and Bucky together in bed and that does enticing things to him.  

He carefully reaches over and gathers Bucky into his arms before he pulls him over, onto his chest. Steve tucks Bucky underneath his arm and pulls Bucky’s left arm across his chest. The bruises around Bucky’s wrists have become almost nonexistent and to the naked eye, they would look like a happy couple tucked away in their bed. To a camera lens, they would be perfect.

Steve extends the arm that isn’t holding Bucky and smiles as he takes the first picture.

Half an hour later, Steve is swiping through the gallery of his phone, looking through the photos he’s taken. There’s over two dozen and he loves all of them but his favorite ends up being the one with his lips against Bucky’s forehead.

He sets it as the wallpaper of his lockscreen and stares at it until his eyelids start to droop. Steve clicks the phone off and shoves it back underneath his pillow before he settles down and tightens his arms around Bucky.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks.  

* * *

June 22, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

The problem, is that everytime Steve leaves, he takes extreme precaution and always angles his body to where it’s blocking Bucky’s view.

Bucky can hear the rapid, high-toned beeps shriek into the air as Steve’s fingers dance across the pad and no matter how hard Bucky tries to get the quickest peak at what Steve types, it’s like Steve always knows.

With the correct password, the keypad gives another high-toned beep that signals the code entered was correct. Only then does the metal bar click open. The thud of the lock undoing itself always jolts Bucky wherever he’s sitting. He can practically feel it in his bones when that lock undoes itself.

Steve turns and bids a last goodbye, flashes a bright smile of perfect white teeth, and promises Bucky he’ll be home soon.

Bucky doesn’t return any sentiment, never does, and he refuses to linger on the fact that Steve considers this place Bucky’s home. Like that would _ever_ be a fucking possibility in his lifetime. He’d rather die.

The door closes behind Steve and Bucky reaches across the counter and chunks the glass bowl that was within his reach. It’s the bowl that Steve keeps the fruit in but that means nothing to Bucky and he doesn’t hesitate as the glass goes soaring through the air. The bowl shatters as it hits the door and when Bucky sinks back onto the stool, his chest is heaving.

* * *

June 25, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

It’s a quiet night, one that’s filled with the sound of their forks clinking against their plates and pretty much nothing else.

Also known as a typical, normal night for the two. Much to Steve’s displeasure-- which is probably all that Bucky wants. Because that’s all the brunet does; frown at him from across the table if he actually dares glance in Steve’s direction. If he does, it’s usually less than a second before Bucky bites down on his jaw and turns away, Steve all but forgotten.

Steve still tries to engage conversation because Bucky yelling at him is better than him ignoring him completely. He almost wishes for those days when Bucky would scream so hard until his voice cracked and fizzled out. Anything would be better than the silence and isolation Bucky forces between them.

When they’re done Bucky makes a bee-line for the couch and Steve says nothing as he goes, just silently picks up their plates and starts to gather them in the sink, letting the water run on high to drown out the silence.

Bucky never willingly turns on the tv, or anything really, just sits in his spot and locks his arms around his legs as if he’s setting up his barricade to keep Steve away. Bucky may pretend not to be paying Steve any mind but Steve knows better, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Bucky tracks his every move, his every breath.

“I picked up a new movie,” Steve talks over the rushing water, turning his head to the left to glance over the counters into the living room. “Wanna watch it tonight?”

Steve gives it a few seconds, hoping that Bucky will finally speak, but he doesn’t and Steve is only met with that damn silence that has quickly become the number one thing he despises. It takes every ounce of control not to pounce over the counter, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake the stubbornness from him. Instead, Steve turns back to the sink and bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from sighing aloud and doing anything just as damaging.

He just can’t take any of it anymore.

After everything he’s gone through, after everything he’s done _for_ Bucky, this silence and absolute refusal to even look in his direction on Bucky’s behalf, fucking stings. Bucky’s actions hurt Steve more than any words he’s screamed, more than any hits Bucky has landed on him. The part that hurts more than anything is that Bucky acts like Steve is the worst person on the goddamn planet and Steve is _far_ from any of those. If Bucky were to just give him the chance to prove himself then the brunet could see how wrong he is and how ready Steve is for this-- _them--_  to be a good thing. Steve is no saint, far from it, but he has the best intentions in all of this-- there’s a reason for the things that he has does, _why_ he keeps Bucky here with him.

He just needs to show Bucky. Force it on him, if he has to.

Steve switches the water off and backs away, drying his hands on the towel nearby. The cogs in his head are turning a mile a minute, thinking on what to do, but as his eyes catch sight of the dvd case on the counter, it all clicks into place. It’ll be a long shot but he’s desperate at this point and if he has to be the one to initiate contact, then he has no problems doing so. Bucky already hates him so  it’s not like he has more to lose.

Steve nods his head to himself as he makes his decision.

He glances towards Bucky before he shoots towards the direction of the stairs with the false intention of going to get changed into night clothes. However, instead of immediately dashing up the steps, Steve disappears further into the hallway and stops in front of the thermostat that controls the air conditioning and heating of the house. It’s usually set at a comforting degree that isn’t too hot not too cold but tonight, Steve doesn’t need comfort. With a quick turn of his wrist, Steve lowers the temperature down to sixty degrees fahrenheit and then turns away as if he’d never been there. As quietly as he can, he takes to the stairs and slips into the bedroom where he changes into a thick pair of sweatpants and soft tee. He darts back down the stairs knowing he has to act fast because the obvious change of temperature won’t take Bucky long to take notice since the thin material of his pajama pants and shirt won’t bode well against the chill.

He barely manages to suppress the sigh of relief when he snatches the dvd off the counter and notices that Bucky hadn’t managed to grab the only blanket within the room. Steve makes an obvious show of plopping the dvd into the player before he walks towards the other end of the couch and pulls the blanket along with him. He lays himself down horizontally with the couch and pulls the dark blue material of the blanket up to his chin as he starts the movie up.

From there, it’s just a waiting game and waiting is something that Steve does particularly well.

It’s a blessing, however, that he ends up not having to wait at all. Less than half an hour, to be exact. He had hardly been paying attention to the movie-- something about a man stuck on Mars and somehow surviving until his team could retract him-- and instead, had hid his smile every time Bucky slowly curled in on himself, trying to find warmth. At first Bucky had tucked his hands under his crossed arms. Minutes later, he then squirmed against the couch cushions to cling to any fabric he could. Steve hadn’t bought pillows yet so there was nothing for Bucky to grab and it wasn’t like there was a spare blanket up for grabs. From there, not ten minutes later, Bucky curled his toes beneath the long hem of his pants and tucked his hands between his thighs, somehow making himself a small, clinging ball of shivering flesh.

Steve figured that once Bucky started to rub against his arms, the brunet had had enough and would surely be desperate enough to find any means of warmth.

Steve turns his head to the left, away from the tv screen and although Bucky may be looking towards it, Steve doubts he’s actually concentrating on what’s happening. His thin body is shaking where it lays and Steve can see the way Bucky’s teeth chatter even with his jaw clenched tight. Leave it to Bucky to actually suffer rather than break his mulishness.

“You want some blanket?”

It takes a few seconds until Bucky shakes his head no. Steve had almost thought Bucky was actually going to finally give in and couldn’t mask the disappointment he felt when Bucky rejected him once again.

“Bucky,” he tries again, forcing himself to feel bolder than he actually did. “I can tell your cold. It’s warm under here,” Steve lifts up the blanket as if to prove a point. When he does, he gets a wave of frigid air and thinks that maybe he went a bit too extreme. Last thing he wants is for Bucky to get fucking hypothermia while in their own house.

Steve is just about to get up and return the thermostat to its regular temperature when suddenly he sees Bucky turn his head and look straight at him. He almost cries in relief when those beautiful eyes train on him.

“Thanks for the offer but I think I’d rather fucking die,” Bucky informs him so coldly that Steve actually feels the air leave his lungs in one painful go.

Steve can only stare at Bucky until something inside just _snaps_. He heaves himself off of the couch and Bucky’s eyes go wide when he stands to his full height. Steve takes two short strides towards where Bucky is huddled on the sectional and before Bucky makes the decision to kick his legs out and fight, Steve throws himself down onto him.

It’s an array of thrashing elbows and legs but somehow, Steve gets himself behind Bucky and slides his arms around Bucky’s chest, the blanket now pulled fully over the both of them. He has a strong grip on Bucky’s arms but the second the blanket touches Bucky’s skin, the younger man kicks it away.

“I don’t want it!” Bucky shouts. His body is still shivering as Steve clings on, praying that Bucky will relent sooner rather than later. The brunet manages to throw a hard elbow to Steve’s ribs and tries to scramble off the couch but Steve is quick to recover and he shoots his hands out and locks Bucky in his place, capturing his wrists by his ears.

Steve wraps one of his arms back over Bucky’s chest and pulls him flush against him, Bucky’s back to Steve’s front. Bucky’s wrists are still captured in Steve’s hands but it does nothing to hinder Bucky’s sporadic movements. With no other options, Steve manages to throw his right leg over both of Bucky’s legs and traps him even further.

At first, Bucky still fights. He keeps trying to jab his elbows backwards into Steve’s flesh and continues to try to kick his legs out but Steve easily outweighs him both in muscle and power so it’s no trouble on his part to keep holding on.

Steve presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, right beside his ear and breathes out, “Stop, Buck.”

It nearly startles him when Bucky actually listens, stilling his movements in one quick blink of an eye. Bucky’s elbows drop uselessly in front of them and his legs freeze beneath Steve’s.

Slowly, as if he were handling a wild animal, Steve retracts his grip from Bucky’s wrists. It has been some time since their last tussel and it leaves a shot of adrenaline pumping through Steve’s system as if his body is ready to fight and claim like it so desperately wants to.

But this is progress. For the first time, when Steve has spoken, Bucky _listened_. He actually listened. He’s gone compliant and finally listened to what Steve said without throwing another separate, uncontrollable argument into play.

With his free hand, Steve reaches down and grabs the blanket that Bucky had kicked to the floor. Steve pulls it up and drapes it over the both of them, making sure all parts of Bucky is covered.

Even with the blanket, Bucky is trembling. When Steve glances down, he sees that Bucky’s eyes are shiny and set straight ahead on the bright screen of the tv. Instead of saying anything, Steve just tightens his arms, letting the warmth envelope them in a sweet embrace.

Thirty minutes later, when Bucky’s toes are no longer icicles, Steve takes another chance and cards his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair, pushing it to the side and away from covering Bucky’s face.

“See,” Steve leans over, smiling down at Bucky, “Isn’t this better?”

Bucky doesn’t verbally answer; he just nods his head which is a slight dip of his chin and the only reason Steve knows he nods at all is because he feels Bucky’s head shift ever so lightly against him.

At least they’ve come to an agreement, even if it’s a silent one.

* * *

June 26, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

He needs to get the fuck out.

He tried to play it smart. He tried to find out the password for the door, he tried to escape. He tried to pry his way out the damn door and he fucking tried his damn well hardest to break through the windows.

He’s nowhere near giving up but after last night-- after it being so blatantly obvious that Steve is fucking crazy and could easily overpower him at any given moment-- he knows that he needs to get out and right the fuck now. He can’t do this anymore.

If he can’t get the password, then he’s just gonna have to try his second option. It’s ballsy and nowhere near a guarantee for escape but he can’t sit here for another fucking day and watch as Steve enters the house with that smile and bright eyes and locks the door behind him with no care for how it kills Bucky each and every time that metal bar closes shut.

This time, he’s going to be ready.

* * *

 

Hours later, Bucky is sitting with his back against the door, listening closely for the usual sound of Steve’s vehicle pulling up. His mind is made up and he knows that there’s no such thing as backing down but _fuck_ is he nervous. He’s practically vibrating with how badly his body is shaking in anticipation and every few seconds, he flexes his grip against his knee caps. He doesn’t _feel_ strong, he feels scared shitless because he knows that what he’s going to do isn’t what Steve is going to want. Steve could very easily lose his shit over this. Steve could pull out that fucking syringe again and Bucky could lose more time. Or Steve could overpower him, hurt him. He hasn’t done it yet but it’s blatantly obvious that Steve could if he wanted to. Bucky forces himself not to think about that possibility because that is venturing into dangerous territory that he can’t deal with.

The worst case scenario in this is that Steve drugs him up and forces him back into those damn wrist cuffs. The best scenario is that Bucky gets out-- runs as far and as fast as he fucking can away from Steve and this place.

He’s ready. He’s fucking ready for this. No more bullshitting around, waiting for no one to come and rescue him. So Bucky sits and waits, listening for Steve. He concentrates on controlling his breathing; in and out, in and out.

It isn’t even three yet when he hears the ground crunch beneath the weight of tires. Bucky immediately leaps up from his spot on the floor and shakes out his limbs as he faces the door. He’s only got one shot at this, he knows.

Bucky bobs up and down on his toes as the sound of a vehicle door closing reaches his ears. He can feel the panic shooting down his spine like an electric pulse but he doesn’t focus on it, he can’t.

He sucks in a breath as he hears the high pitched beeping of Steve’s vehicle locking and there’s only seconds now. He’ll only have seconds.

There’s no going back after this. Bucky clenches his hands shut to stop the shaking, his gaze set hard on the door in front of him.

Then, the jingle of Steve’s keys sounds off right on the other side of the door. Bucky takes a deep breath.

The door opens and Bucky shoots into action.

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

It all happens so fast.  

Too fast to even process.

One second Steve is pushing the front door of the house open, then the next, Bucky collides into him with so much force that it actually halts the breath in his lungs. He’s stunned on the spot but it’s like his brain throws itself into action knowing the vitalness of this moment, the importance of what he could lose.

Bucky manages to throw himself past the frame of the door, gripping the sides with his hands and pulling himself through, not minding how Steve’s body blocks the majority of the space. Steve curses to himself as he lodges his body to the side, trying his best to jam Bucky into the wall. It works but only barely and in result, he gets a hard elbow to the side of his head as Bucky struggles against him. The space to his right is wide open and the door is uselessly out of his reach so it isn’t like he can pry the damn thing shut. The only way out of this is to get Bucky restrained on the inside of the house and manage to get the door shut and locked before he can do anything else.

“Bucky, stop!” he shouts over the brunet’s struggles. He can hardly hear himself over their harsh breathing and struggles, but he doesn’t budge an inch away from Bucky. Steve knows the position must be painful for the younger man since he’s jammed up against the door frame with his arms down to his elbows on the outside of the house and grasping on tightly to the siding as if trying to pull his way through.

Steve begins to panic when Bucky’s movements don’t halt and if anything, his thrashing only gets stronger and the more seconds that tick by, Steve can feel his grip slipping. He wasn’t prepared for this. The suit jacket that he has on has his arms restrained and he can’t do much more than have his arms extended straight. Even the fabric of his slacks restrict him in ways that hinder his ability to hold strong.

He can’t chance Bucky getting out, he _can’t_. His property is large and he wasn’t lying when he told Clint he doesn’t have neighbors for miles, but still. The outside world isn’t something that Steve can control. The inside of his house is.

“No!” Bucky pleads. “No, no, just let me fucking go!” He’s thrashing against Steve’s hold and his elbows and knees are the only weapons he has against Steve so he puts as much effort into them as he humanly can. It’s the hardest he’s fought against Steve and with every blow the brunet lands, Steve grunts at the impact.

Bucky somehow pulls himself even further outside the house and when the sunlight flashes over Bucky’s face as he inches forward, Steve’s alarm kicks into hard drive. He can feel his heartbeat pounding against his ribs and with every ounce of energy and strength that he has, Steve surges his weight all the way to the left.  

Bucky cries out at the impact and Steve’s added weight throws him momentarily but that small slip is all that Steve needs. Steve manages to get his arm shoved under Bucky’s armpit and with one gruesome tug, he flings Bucky away from the door frame and back into the house. The momentum of his movements throw the both of them down to the ground and when they hit the floor, the back of Bucky’s head thuds against the hardwood floor. Although every fiber of his being wants to make sure Bucky is okay, Steve doesn’t waste a second twisting his body towards the door and slamming it shut.

The deadbolt locks and it’s only then that he takes a deep breath of relief, his chest heaving with the effort. With it shut and out of his attention, Steve turns back towards Bucky.

The younger man is sprawled on his back and there’s tears freely flowing down both of his cheeks. He’s trembling again with his eyes trained blankly on the ceiling above them. It pains Steve to see him like that but it hurts him even more that Bucky tried to get away.

Steve is silent as he sits up and shoves his jacket off, throwing it carelessly to the side. Neither of them speak for several minutes and the only sound that can be heard is the hard breathing of the pair. Until, “Why’d you do that?” Steve whispers, looking towards the brunet.

Bucky doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak either. Steve pays close attention to the rises and falls of Bucky’s chest, and counts each blink the younger man does. He knows he’ll have to check Bucky’s vitals to make sure he didn’t get a concussion but it’s a small price to pay in comparison to what could have happened.

Steve sighs as he pushes himself up to his feet. He reaches up and unbuttons the first two buttons of his suit shirt as he steps away from the door. He forces his feet to walk past Bucky and to not stop because he knows that Bucky needs his space for a while to call down. So instead of reaching down towards the brunet like he really wants, Steve walks over to the fridge and pulls a water bottle off the shelf.

He takes a large chug and lets the door fall shut before he turns his head towards Bucky.

“I think it’s time we get some cameras,” he breaks the silence, nodding to himself at the turn of his thoughts.

Bucky, however, lifts his arms and shields them over his eyes.

* * *

June 27, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

Steve ends up pulling a dozen security cameras off the shelf of _Barton Supplies_ and stacks them neatly inside his cart, one on top of another. It’s a bit excessive to grab so many but he can’t risk Bucky getting the jump on him again. Yesterday had been too close. What if Bucky had knocked him out? What if Bucky had managed to run past him while he had laid uselessly passed out on the floor?

Even if Bucky hadn’t knocked him out, he could have ran. For how long-- Steve doesn’t know, but the point is that he _could_ have, if Steve hadn’t handled the situation. And that fucking terrifies him.

He isn’t concerned about police. He isn’t concerned about Bucky finding help. All that matters is Bucky getting away and leaving Steve with no possible way of ever seeing him again. Just thinking about it makes Steve’s chest hurt, makes him want to add another metal bar across the door just to be extra careful. Then again, that’s what Steve is doing, technically. He may not be ordering another bar lock, but he is purchasing a dozen security cameras just so that he can always know where Bucky is.

This is better for the both of them. For Bucky because it only adds more to his protection. For Steve because now he can have eyes on Bucky during all hours of the day whenever he isn’t actually home to watch him. These cameras will essentially be his peace of mind.

With the shelf cleared,  Steve maneuvers his way around the metal basket and grips onto the carts handles before making his way towards the cash register to pay. Like his last visit, there isn’t an overwhelming amount of people that make the checkout process a hassle and amazingly, the exact same cashier is there to greet him.

Her lips are stretched in a wide grin and its obvious by the head to toe look she gives him that she’s admiring the view. It still makes him uncomfortable when he catches those types of looks from people. Having grown up small and weak and on the verge of an asthma attack at all hours hadn’t really been a self esteem boost and no one back then had given him the time of day to actually get to know him. Now, people like the young cashier, only saw what was on the outside, something that he had worked hard on sculpting for himself thanks to a growth spurt that first summer out of high school. They only saw what they wanted to, not caring for what was on the inside.

He gives her a tight lipped nod as he approaches the counter and begins to unload the cart by stacking the security camera boxes on top of one another. Each box he sets down, the young cashier’s brows raise further and further on her forehead.

“Gee mister, you trying to set up security for the entire city of Brooklyn?” she jokes.  

It falls flat to him and he gives a useless, forced huff as if it’s amusing because it’s the expected reaction. Having grown up not a people pleaser makes it’s almost embarrassingly easy how he can read them so well now, how he can predict what they want from him in return. All those years sitting on the playground alone, watching his classmates play and interact with each other, and those hours when he was benched for sport games and sat uselessly when they ran around bases or shot hoops-- all of it paid off in the end, being a people watcher. That’s what he did best.

He grins, shooting her a falsely amused look. “Just about,” he responds back, his voice clipped.

Steve thinks that’s the end of conversation. He keeps unloading his cart until there is nothing left to grab and he isn’t paying attention as the woman scans each box and bags them, instead, he reaches for his wallet in his back pocket.

“Hey. Steve, right?”

Steve’s head darts up, his fingers freezing against the leather. He halts because the voice is not feminine, and it’s definitely one that he’s heard before. He glances across the counter and sees none other than Clint standing there, a look of unsureness on his face.

 _Shit_. Shitshitshitshit.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve nods, keeping his head down slightly. He had thought he’d been careful by choosing to wear a baseball cap to hide as much of his face as he could, but apparently a fucking hat wasn’t enough. He _knew_ he should have worn the glasses. “You remember me?”

Clint snorts at that. “You’re built like a brick house, kinda hard to forget your face. And, well, you spent a lot of money the last time you were here with those windows.”

“Right,” Steve nods. He’s uncomfortable as hell because literally just a few hours ago, he had sent a text from Bucky’s phone to the man in front of him, bullshitting yet another excuse for why Bucky couldn’t meet up.

“You still having problems with break-ins?” Clint asks, pulling Steve’s attentions yet again. Clint darts a pointed look towards the numerous boxes of cameras before darting up towards Steve. The question throws Steve and he knows he looks confused for a short moment but then he remembers that it’s the excuse he had given Clint when he had ordered the windows.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve nods again, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I just wanted to take more precaution.”

“You have a big house or somethin? That’s a lot of coverage you’re gonna get with those.”

More questions. _Great_ , Steve thinks to himself.

“Family house, two floors, so yeah, kinda,” he explains. He isn’t trying to give his life story here. Steve nudges his arm forward and hands his card over, hoping the cashier will hop to attention and swipe the damn thing so he can leave. She takes it but she’s obviously paying more attention to their conversation than actually handing over his purchases. He eyes the bags wishing he had enough courage to just say fuck it and snatch them and dart.

“I got a lot of land,” he says further.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, you live out in the woods, huh?”

Is there a point to all of this? If Steve hadn’t known better and he wasn't so paranoid, he’d almost say that Clint knew that Bucky was, in fact, with him. Did the man want him to draw him a map? Jesus.

Steve gives that signature forced, thin lipped grin of his. “Yeah, i’m out there a bit.”

“I plan to do that eventually. Start a family and all that, maybe start a farm. My wife works downtown so the commute is within walking distance, can’t really beat that, y’know?”

Yes, he did know. He darts another glance towards the cashier and with the weight of his gaze, she blinks as if remembering herself and finally-- fucking _finally--_ swipes his card. She hands it back and he eagerly snatches it away, before slipping it back into his wallet and shoving it away into his pocket. It’s almost agonizingly slow how he watches the machine spit out his receipt.  

“You know how to install these?” Clint asks. “I can get someone to go out if you need someone to do it.”

Steve starts shaking his head no before Clint is done talking. “I can manage,” he insists. “But thanks for the offer, I appreciate it.” No, he really doesn’t. In fact, he finds it a bit annoying and down right an invasion of privacy.

“No problem, man. But, you know what,--” Clint reaches under the counter and pulls out a small rectangular piece of hard paper. A business card, Steve realizes. “--here’s my card if you come across any problems.”

Steve stares at the card for a good second before he grabs it and stuffs it in his pocket. He has no intention of ever dialing the number. Clint, obviously, doesn’t need to know that.

The girl finally loads his bags onto the counter and Steve doesn’t wait a heartbeat until he grabs them all in one go. He bids them both a good afternoon with another fake smile and before either of them can say another sentence, he turns on his heels and shoots straight for the automatic doors.

The drill sends a high screech throughout the house as Steve drives the last screw into the wall. He’s standing tall on a step up ladder near the front door and has his hands outstretched as he holds the camera up. It’s angled to where it is entirely focused on the entrance of the front door, it’s complete purpose being to catch any of Bucky’s attempts of escaping again. They won’t have another mishap like yesterday.

When he activates it, he watches with a smile on his face as the signal catches onto his cellphone and then, there he is, being projected onto his screen. Before he goes to bed tonight he is going to make sure his laptop is synced with all twelve of the feeds-- their bedroom, the front entrance, the back one, two in the living room, two in the kitchen, upstairs hallway, downstairs hallway, the spare bedroom across the hall, the office on the bottom floor, heck, even the laundry room. He can see the entire house from the screen of his cellphone and he doesn’t try to hide the smile on his face as he switches through the different cameras.

Steve is still flicking through as he steps down the ladder and turns towards the living room. He had felt Bucky’s eyes on him the whole time and as he looks up from his phone towards the brunet, he isn’t surprised to see that he hasn’t moved an inch. Bucky is sitting against the wall with his knees pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around his knees and his head is resting on top, his cheek pressed against his knee caps and his brown hair splayed across his face.

Steve turns the screen of his phone towards Bucky and watches as that beautiful grey gaze flicks to it.

“This will be so much better now,” Steve says. He knows Bucky probably doesn’t agree with him, but as much favor as it does for Steve, it truly does for Bucky as well even if the younger man wouldn’t admit it. At least now Steve will be able to keep an eye on him and make sure Bucky is safe when he’s not there.

“I’m thinking about ordering a monitor that will let you talk to me when I’m at work, just in case you need something,” Steve continues on, turning the phone back to himself to begin tinkering around with the app of the camera feeds. “How does that sound?”

Steve glances back up towards Bucky but when they lock gazes, the brunet blinks and turns his head the other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being so late! This was literally almost done three weeks ago but then midterms came up, then Spring Break, and ugh-- hope you guys forgive me. 
> 
> Also, there's a Spotify playlist for this story so if that's your sorta thing, then go check it out! It's called Brooklyn Syndrome!


	6. July, 2015

July 1, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

From inside the house, Bucky watches through the windows as the sun rises higher and higher into the sky with hues of yellow and orange. Days are passing, slowly, yet also strangely fast at the same time, like a blur of motions that string together and make it almost impossible for him to register and comprehend. 

The last he remembered, it had been the end of May. The trees were green and flowers had bloomed in the park and there had been the faintest breeze in the air that kept things fresh, kept the concept of spring alive and flourishing within Brooklyn.

But now… now Bucky can tell by the way the trees stay motionless, how the sun constantly beats down overhead and if he looks carefully enough, he can see the heat waves dancing through the branches.

There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s summer time.

He’s supposed to be out  _ there _ . Nat and Clint had wanted to go hiking at one of the state parks. Becca and his ma had wanted to come down and visit Coney Island, even go to the beach and feed the seagulls. He was supposed to go visit his family, had made plans to start discussing vacation once the book was done and yeah Becca wanted to travel to Cabo but hell, he would've been fine renting out a lake house in bumfuck Montana and maybe ride some horses along the way because what else did people from Montana do?

The  _ point _ , is that there were things that he was supposed to be doing but he wasn’t-- he  _ couldn’t _ . Bucky is stuck here and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get out.

He feels exhausted, mentally and physically drained of any energy he could ever possess. It’s like he’s a hollow vessel of himself, going through the motions of life but not really feeling any of it, almost as if he’s gone numb to it all.

And perhaps he has. Perhaps going numb is the only way his mind can begin to try and cope with what has happened to him. The tragic reality of what has become his life isn’t something that can be handled as easily as someone would think. His freedom has been robbed and he has been shoved into a box with no opening, being taken care of like he’s a fucking pet. He’s mortified at what he has become-- a tembeling mess of a man who can’t even throw a punch hard enough to overpower Steve even if only for a moment.

He hates himself for not fighting enough, hates that he can’t get out and get to his family and friends who  _ need  _ him. He hates that all he does is sit here and stare out of a fucking window like he’s some lost soul.

Then again, that’s… that’s what he is. He’s lost.

Bucky presses his palm against the glass and relishes in the heated warmth that kisses his exposed skin. It feels  _ good _ . It’s a beautiful day out too, and he knows that if he were anywhere else but here, he would have spent the day outdoors, maybe go to the park, buy some frozen yogurt on the way there. He would've gone to that shop on the corner of Pine street, the one that gives out the plastic spoons that change colors with the temperature. His favorite.

He lets out a huff of air, shaking his head and scolding himself for diverging into such pointless things. Bucky can’t say what he would be doing because he can’t be doing it. It’s a waste of time and it’s just-- it’s tearing a fucking hole straight through his chest the longer he dwells. The misery is almost unbearable. The dread that rattles in his bones keeps him on edge at all hours and all he wants is to just let go, take a deep breath and open his eyes and find himself back in his apartment. He wants to wake up from this fucking nightmare that never ends.

It’s wishful thinking that’s killing him. It’s his prayers that have gone unanswered. It’s his silent cries of help that go unheard. Slowly, they each take pieces out of him, bit by bit.

Bucky pulls his hand away from the window but continues to hold it up. The curtains are drawn apart just enough that the rays of sunlight peak through the cracks and light up the room. He lets his fingers dance through the beams of light, slowly bending each of his digits and watching in silent fascination as his fingers break the unending ray only for it to return once he moves his next finger.

Outside he can hear the birds chirping. Every few minutes he can see the faint flutter of a shadow dart across the carpet as one of the avians fly by. He wishes he could be one, spread his wings and fly, fly, fly away. Far from here.

Bucky can’t bring himself to look at them. It hurts enough as it is to look outside the window and see the world moving forward while he’s being left behind.

* * *

July 3, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

It’s always quiet at work. Boring too with his schedule limited to a few adolescent physicals, a variation of vaccine injections, and regular checkups for his older patients. Pretty much same old same old like always, apart from those mind-blowing cases that come in with stories too creative to be anything  _ but _ true (just last week Sam had a patient that came in who shoved a 10 inch package of salami up his ass; the week before that, Steve had dealt with a woman who had a similar experience only this time it was with a cucumber and her husband had somehow accidentally lost his wedding ring inside of her while trying to get the damn thing out). Work kept him on his toes alright, always expecting the unexpected.

But today is not one of those days. Today is filled with paperwork and prescription recommendations that don’t really need to be filed anytime soon so naturally, Steve let’s his attention wander to more important matters.

He pulls his eyes away from the large computer monitor on his desk, the one that the hospital issued, and moves his head to the left, letting his attention focus on his laptop screen. It’s been open all day with it’s images constantly being at Steve’s every beckoning. Whenever Steve gets that all too familiar itch, he looks, eyes wide and greedy.

When he scans the feeds it’s only then that he’s content all over again, that tightness in his chest turning into something addicting. Because there Bucky is, alive and well on his laptop screen.

Usually the younger man is huddled on the couch, his head buried in his hands and knees for hours on end or silently staring at the window with the softest, most vulnerable look on his face. Sometimes, he’ll lock himself away in the bathroom, disappearing from view because he knows it’s the only room in the house that doesn’t have a camera. Steve had thought long and hard about that certain room but in the end, he couldn’t find the courage to cross that line of privacy and he would never forget the look on Bucky’s face when the brunet realized there was some level of decency that Steve upheld himself to. Everything else, however, was on full display for Steve and Steve’s eyes only.

Steve can’t think of a bigger distraction for himself. Most times he’s more concerned with what Bucky is doing rather than what patient is waiting for him in an exam room down the hall. Steve knows it’s not ethical exactly, to not care about his patients, but what would anyone expect? He  _ has  _ someone now-- a very important someone, and there’s no way in hell that Steve would dare put anyone above Bucky.

His Bucky.

Bucky who, according to Steve’s live feed, is sitting in his usual spot on the sectional and reading a book that Steve brought home for him not that long ago. It had been a gift, one that Bucky had taken with obvious hesitance but eventually accepted after Steve had urged how appreciative it would make him feel. The brunet has been reading it for the past few days now but every so often, his attention gets pulled towards the window and Steve finds himself awestruck with how beautiful Bucky looks when the sunlight pools around his face, making his eyes look so bright that they seem to be glowing.

The sight makes Steve smile and leaving his work completely behind, he pulls himself closer to his laptop and navigates the feed’s controls. He zooms in the camera that he’s watching Bucky through and up close, Steve can track the way Bucky’s eyes flicker past the window or how they move side to side on the pages he thumbs through. It’s hypnotic in ways that Steve can’t describe and he hardly registers his movement as he brings up his hand and lets his fingers slide against the screen of his laptop, touching the glass that shields over Bucky’s face.

It’s moments like this that he realizes just how much lov--

There’s a sharp knock at Steve’s door that has him straightening up instantly and before he can  voice ‘ _ busy at the moment _ ’, the damn door just starts opening and he has less than a second until he’s turning off the screen of his laptop and watching as the feeds all turn black. Someone is walking into his office and he should greet them but he’s scrambling for a pen and pretending to be nose-deep in his work to even consider the man. Sam, however, just stands there in front of his desk with a look on his face like he’s not totally oblivious to what Steve was just doing and just thinking of the possibility sends a chill of discomfort down Steve’s spine.

His air of nonchalance is tense as he brings his head up to look towards his friend, his expression perhaps overly polite since all he really wants to do is yell that now he doesn’t have eyes on Bucky. Steve can feel that unsettling effect take over and it amazes him how fast his body reacts to the change.Then again, they always say, the _ body knows best. _

“Where you just skyping your boy?” Sam asks, his voice loud and proud like always. “You shouldn’t’ve hung up, I would’ve waited since I know how totally  _ whipped  _ you are.” There’s a grin on Sam’s face but all Steve wants to do is wipe it away because Sam most definitely  _ doesn’t  _ know-- he doesn’t even really know Steve, let alone enough to judge his personal love life.

Sam doesn’t know shit and that’s how Steve wants it.

Steve nods his head because it’s easier to go with the excuse that Sam has provided instead of coming up with something of his own.

“Yeah,” he agrees. Steve keeps shuffling through paperwork trying to make it seem like he has better things to do but Sam has always been the kind of guy to see through all his bullshit so naturally, the man just keeps standing there and staring.

It gets awkward fast and Steve can feel the flush of his cheeks under Sam’s scrutinization. It’s weird because Sam has always been there, always, but now, with everything that Steve keeps from him, it’s like Steve’s waiting for the man to approach him and demand to know the truth. Steve likes to think of himself as an accomplished liar but in reality, no one’s ever been there to call him out on his shit and well, if anyone was to be that person, it would eventually be Sam. It was only a matter of  _ when  _ Sam would finally catch up.

Or when Steve would let him.

Sam clears his throat and Steve looks up, finally actually looking towards the other man in the room. There’s a grin on Sam’s face and he brings his arm up, holding a gift bag out towards Steve.

Steve’s brows furrow at the sight and he looks at Sam in question before that grin stretches even further across his friend’s face. It actually worries Steve just a bit until, “Happy birthday, Captain America,” Sam says.

It throws Steve for a second but then his eyes catch on the corner of his desk monitor and sees the date and--  _ oh _ .

It’s his fucking birthday. Well, technically it’s not his  _ actual  _ birthday but tomorrow is the weekend and it’s rare that any of them ever see each other on days they actually don’t work. They see enough of each other as it is.

Truthfully, his birthday hasn’t been a large spectacle since his ma died. The only reason why Sam and the rest of the staff know is because it falls on such a patriotic date-- hence the oh-so-creative nickname-- and such a small, intimate detail about Steve is all they have ever gotten so naturally they all cling to with as much desperation as they can. It’s always the same old same old but this year, given everything that’s been happening for him, Steve hadn’t given his birthday a single thought. He’s never really cared about it before and he doesn’t care about it now either because the only person that he would actually be excited to celebrate it with, has no clue or concern and probably wishes he was dead on a daily, maybe even hourly, basis.

And isn’t that a hard pill to fucking swallow?

Steve looks back towards Sam and shoots him a smile of gratitude just as he takes the present. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”

“So I was thinking maybe go out and get some drinks tonight? I can round up the usual gang if you want,” Sam asks. There’s a slight edge to his voice almost like he knows damn well that Steve is going to pass but is still kind enough to offer.

Steve rubs the back of his neck and eyes the present that he’d set down on the edge of his desk. Leave it to Sam to find a gift bag with the American flag plastered onto it.

“I… Tonight is kinda--” Steve fumbles with his words, trying his damn well hardest to string an excuse together. His awkwardness is enough to get Sam taking pity and all Steve can do is watch as that grin stretches even further across his face.

“Steve, if you wanna enjoy some nice, intimate  _ birthday  _ time with your boy, you can just say it. Won’t hurt my feelings none.”

The blush that creeps on Steve’s face makes the room feel like it’s over a hundred degrees. His groin twitches at the visual that pops in his skull, thinking of Bucky naked and beneath him, his soft skin wrapped around Steve’s, his red lips plump and slick… Steve swallows heavily and shifts in his chair.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve smiles up at Sam. “...more like a birthday weekend.”

Sam snorts at that.  _ Of course he does _ , Steve thinks to himself. It’s a dude thing to say, something friends share with friends despite how crude it is to speak about such private matters. When--  _ if--  _ things ever get intimate between him and Bucky, like hell would Steve share anything. Bucky was  _ his  _ to enjoy, no one else’s.

“Fucking christ, Steve,” Sam smiled back. “It’s about time, man. I’m happy for you, finally getting to see you have someone so I understand. A man’s got needs, y’know, and I most certainly don’t want to get in your way  _ wildman _ .”

Steve knows by the sound of Sam’s voice that the nickname is gonna stick. He has no doubt that once Sam leaves this office, the gossip train is going to run a mile a second and it’s gonna revolve all around Steve and this new found detail. It beats Captain America, Steve thinks. Then again, wildman isn’t exactly how Steve would describe his sex life. He’s never… no one has ever been important enough to claim such a hold on Steve and in return, Steve never wanted to give it to them.

_ A man’s got needs, y’know… _

Steve can’t disagree. He’s had needs all his life but now, it’s like those needs have been smothered yet thrown into hard drive at the same time and they somehow revolve around one person. He has Bucky but he doesn’t  _ have  _ him.

“Thanks Sam,” he answers, the smile on his face fading. Sam keeps talking, something about his plans for the weekend, but instead of paying attention, Steve’s gaze travels back onto the laptop.

Beneath his desk, Steve’s legs bounce with anxiety.

* * *

July 4, 2015

* * *

 

Steve places the steaming cup of coffee in front of Bucky and watches as the young man brightens up, the sleepiness in his eyes turning more focused. This time of the day is always Steve’s favorite, getting to watch up close and personal as Bucky’s body blooms to life. He’s downright adorable in the mornings with his yawns and soft mewls and the sight of the brunet wrapping his hands around the mug always makes Steve’s chest tighten in affection.

It isn’t until they’re both sitting down at the table with their breakfast that Steve gets an alert on his phone, a reminder that has been pre-programmed into his phones for years now. From across the table, Bucky’s gaze shoots to the noise as Steve dismisses it with a swipe of his finger.

Steve pulls the phone off of the table and shoves it into his pocket before he picks his head back up and looks towards Bucky. “Do you like fireworks?”

Bucky slowly lowers his fork and Steve can see the way he bites into his cheek. His dark brows are furrowed slightly, showing his confusion. “Fireworks?” Bucky repeats.

Steve nods. “It’s the fourth of July.” Bucky’s gaze drops and his eyes quickly dart along the surface of the table like he’s thinking real hard. And then it hits him. He realizes that Bucky hasn’t had a proper way of keeping track of the day. Bucky isn’t concerned about it being a holiday, he’s in shock that it’s fucking  _ July _ .

Steve makes the decision right then and there that tomorrow morning the first thing he’s gonna do is go buy a calendar. He thinks that Bucky would appreciate it.

“Are we going to the parade?”

Bucky’s voice makes Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. It’s rare to never that the brunet actually pushes for conversation so naturally, Steve’s more than ready to jump on it. There’s a rush of excitement that flushes through him, making his spine tingle.

“No,” he answers, nodding towards the living room instead. “On the tv. I like to watch them live from the capitol.”

Bucky leans back further into his chair. It’s common by now that the younger man likes to pick his legs up and press his knees into his chest but there’s a look on his face that Steve isn’t accustomed to.

“W-why not watch them outside?” Bucky presses on.

Steve shrugs, “There’s no one close enough that pops fireworks and you can’t see the ones in the city from here, we’re too far.”

Bucky silently nods but his fingers pick at the fabric covering his knees. Steve wants nothing more than to reach across the table and pick those hands up, wrap his fingers tight around Bucky’s and bring them to his lips. But he doesn’t.

“Did you like them?” he asks instead, picking up his fork and swallowing a mouthful of omelette.

This time, it’s Bucky who shrugs. He hasn’t moved to start eating again but his eyes are watching Steve, following his every move.

“The idea of celebrating freedom seems a bit ironic right now, don’t you think?”

Steve glances across the table and meets Bucky’s gaze head on. He’s no fool and can hear the acquisition hidden beneath Bucky’s words.

“I think it’s better to think of it as a time for new beginnings.”

Bucky tears his gaze away and looks down, letting his fingers rub along the edge of the table. “I’m sure you would,” Bucky whispers low enough that even if they were in a crowded room, the words would still be for Steve only.

When eleven comes around, Steve turns on the tv and makes sure that the volume is raised high enough so that they can enjoy the effects of the explosions like they’re supposed to. Bucky is sitting criss-cross on the couch watching him and as Steve goes to join him, he plops himself down right besides the brunet to where their knees brush together and their thighs touch. Steve holds his breath as he settles, waiting for Bucky to extract himself and crawl into the corner of the couch but as one moment passes, then two, Bucky doesn’t move an inch. Steve lets out a sigh of relief just as the first firework shoots up off of the lawn of the White House.

It’s silent as the camera traces it up into the air but then it erupts, and the colors from the tv dance into the living room with a loud  _ boom _ . 

* * *

July 12, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

They have a routine, practically set in stone with how methodical Steve is with everything they do.

Steve wakes up at a certain time; showers and gets dressed for the day before he cooks breakfast and  _ then  _ chooses to wake him up. Bucky wonders how Steve does it considering he never hears an alarm in the morning and he knows damn well that he would most certainly hear one going off instead of sleep through it.

It’s even stranger that once Bucky hits the bed, he’s out. He doesn’t want to admit that the bed is more comfortable than anything he’s ever been on before-- with Steve’s mountain of pillows and the nest of sheets and comforters that he keeps draped across the mattress-- but it’s like sleeping on a fucking cloud and yeah, he supposes he always tires himself out through the day so naturally his body decides to shut down once he hits the pillows. But still… not once does he wake up during the night to so much as shift on his side.

It’s  _ stress _ , he knows it. It’s eating his body right up, draining him of everything he has.

Which is why he isn’t entirely surprised when one morning, instead of handing over his usual cup of coffee of juice, Steve slides a neat container across the counter with several different colored tablets.

Bucky eyes them warily as Steve turns towards the sink and twists the faucet on to fill up a glass cup with water.

When the blond turns back around and sees Bucky’s expression, he makes a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Don’t you think it would be a bit pointless to poison you now?” he asked with a faint smile playing at his lips.

Bucky snaps his attention up to Steve, blue clashing against grey. “You  _ kidnapped  _ me,” he deadpans. “It wouldn’t be pointless at all.” Because had he ever heard of people getting kidnapped and being taken  _ care  _ of? No. Usually those people ended up dead in a ditch or in a shallow grave out in the middle of nowhere. Then again, maybe those people were being locked away just like he was so no one knew about them., no one knew to be concerned.

Steve makes the sound again and slides the glass right next to the container. He’s looking down at the various little pills and Bucky follows the movement as the blonde’s fingers trace the outside of the container.

“I’m a bit too… attached to you,” Steve says after a short while. When he looks towards Bucky, Bucky is almost thrown with how much emotion is burning in those blue eyes of Steve’s. He wants to fool himself into believing that he doesn’t know what that emotion is but deep down he knows-- he knows and it scares him shitless.

“They’re just vitamins, Buck.”

Bucky reaches out and uses his pointer finger and thumb on his right hand to pluck one of the pills from the container. It’s in the shape of an oval and tan and when Bucky flips it over there’s no markings that give away it’s identity. Even if there were, he wouldn’t know what they meant nor what their purpose would be for.

He tips his head back and pops the pill into his mouth before he reaches out and brings the glass up to his lips, swallowing down the tablet in one go.

When he straightens back up, he meets Steve’s gaze. “And you’re just my kidnapper,” he says in return.

Steve doesn’t say anything back. He silently watches as Bucky swallows down each pill until there’s none left in the container and the glass cup is emptied.  

* * *

July 24, 2015

* * *

There’s a calendar now that hangs in the kitchen, right besides the refrigerator. Everytime that Steve leaves for work, Bucky snags the sharpie from the drawer and crosses the day out, watching as the dates pass one by one.

Today is no different and when Steve walks out the front door, throwing out his ‘ _ I’ll be back soon, bye Buck _ ’ with a smile that leaves Bucky fidgeting with how sincere it is, Bucky slashes out the date and takes a step back with his arms across his chest. He stares at the calendar almost in shock with how late in July that it is, and if he hadn’t physically been keeping track of the days, he would have sworn that Steve’s been crossing out the dates just to fuck with him.

Bucky frowns at the white waxy pages. June had passed in a blink of an eye and now, so had July. He counts the days left until August begins, knowing that he’ll have to start a whole new blank month and have to cross out each day that passes once more.

He should probably be grateful that Steve even gave him the damn calendar but somehow, it mocks him just as badly as the door and the keypad, maybe even more considering how it’s a stark reminder just how long he’s been here.

Two months down the drain, and an unknown amount remaining.

Bucky sighs and backs away.

* * *

July 30, 2015

* * *

Most days follow the routine.

Ever since Bucky tried  _ gracefully  _ to escape, Steve’s more… nice, more considerate of how they interact with one another. Most of their time is spent with small talk, most of it not important and nonpersonal so it’s easy to get out and exchange with one another. Steve hasn’t forced physical contact like he had on the couch when they watched the movie and Bucky supposes that he’s grateful for it but, really, they’re always close as it is.  _ Steve  _ is always close.

The blond doesn’t try to close the space between them on the couch anymore because there is no space, they always sit side by side on the same sectional piece. They sit arm’s length away from each other at the kitchen table and sleep in the same bed in a smaller distance than that. It’s nowhere near similar to how it was all that time ago when Bucky first woke up in that room but that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. Sure there’s no wrist constraints or needles or drugs but there’s still a lock on the door and cameras on the walls and windows that don’t break.

Everything around him is  _ Steve, Steve, Steve _ and it’s just the same as day one when everything Bucky had ever known was taken away and all he had left was a pair of bright blue eyes and a brick house of a man with perfect teeth and soft smiles.

That all changes when Bucky walks into the bedroom from his shower and sees Steve pulling out garments from a large duffle bag.

He pauses in the doorway and stares, feeling the faint dampness of his hair cling to his neck and the smallest beads of water slide down his skin.

Steve turns his head and glances at Bucky from over his shoulder. “I figured you would want this,” Steve says, nodding at the dark blue bag.

His curiosity takes ahold of him and slowly, Bucky pads further into the room, his eyes flickering between Steve and the bag.

“What is it?” he asks.

Steve lifts up one of the garments and holds it out in Bucky’s direction. “It’s your stuff. Your clothes that I grabbed from your apartment.”

Bucky’s gaze hones in on the clothes and sure enough, that’s  _ his  _ shirt and those are  _ his  _ favorite skinny jeans and that’s  _ his  _ sweater that’s always been too big but always felt too good to pass up. His feet move forward before he registers what he’s actually doing. Steve silently steps aside and let’s Bucky get closer to his belongings, watching quietly as he begins to take out more of the clothing from the bag.

Bucky is staring down at the inside of the duffle and hardly pays attention when Steve steps close again, hovering right over Bucky’s shoulder.

“I figured you were tired of wearing my clothes and wanted something of your own,” Steve explains. “There’s plenty of space in the closet and I cleared out a few of the drawers for you.”

Bucky nods and although he may still be pulling out his belongings and smoothing them out on the bed, he can see Steve standing beside him. The blond has his arms at his sides like he’s unsure whether or not to take them away and Bucky stiffens, pulling a pair of pants close to his chest. Clothes might be small and meaningless but it’s something from his old life --  _ before  _ this-- and he won’t just stand there and let Steve take them without putting up a fight, not when he’s just got something of  _ his  _ back.

If there’s anything that he’s learned while being here, it’s that as soon as he shows Steve the slightest bit of gratitude or attention, the blond almost always backs down and practically turns into a ball of fucking sunshine.

So he swallows down his pride and turns towards Steve.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his knuckles pale white as they grip onto the fabric of the pants in his hands. The effects of his words are instant and he watches Steve’s face closely as it brightens, how his shoulders relax and he suddenly seems so much more confident than Bucky has ever seen him before. It makes Bucky sick to see how much of a hold he has on Steve when in reality, it’s the other way around-- a deranged game of tug-of-war of who calls the shots within their… whatever it is between them.

Steve dips his head in acknowledgement but Bucky can still see the soft smile on his face, can see how almost  _ human  _ it makes Steve look if Bucky hadn’t known personally the sins the blond could commit.

“No problem, Buck.”

Bucky drags his gaze away when it becomes too much… when the gentleness of Steve’s voice mixes with the look on his face and causes something to twinge deep within Bucky’s gut. His eyes focus on the clothes still inside the duffle bag and he forces his hands to drop the pants with the rest of the garments and continue pulling the rest out. Beside him, Steve moves towards the drawers and says that he’s gonna go take a shower now, but Bucky isn’t paying him attention anymore.

The time that it takes for Steve to actually get out of the bedroom feels like forever but as soon as Bucky hears the door of the bathroom open and close down the hall, his eyes close in defeat. He hadn’t noticed before with Steve there, but now, by himself, he’s aware of just how badly he’s shaking. His hands are trembling as they grip onto the clothing he pulls onto the bed. Garment after garment that he pulls out is like a final nail in the coffin to how real this all is, how Steve is only giving him his clothes because he sees this as as a permanent thing. Steve doesn’t have any concerns with Bucky getting out of this house. He’s certainly taken every measure into making sure it can’t happen.

When Bucky’s fingers brush the bottom of the duffle bag as he pulls out the last item, it’s then that his vision begins to blur. Tears flood into his eyes but he holds them in and takes a deep, forceful breath as he looks down at the pile of clothes. Of course he recognizes them. He remembers each of the items textures and how some were his favorites while others were not, knows which ones make him look good versus those that did him little to no favors. It’s his closet yet it had all been confined in the dark space of the duffle bag that Steve had brought on that fateful night. All of his clothes, packed and kept  _ away  _ from him just because Steve  _ could _ .

Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls the pile close. He chokes up as he brings them into his lap, running his fingers across the various articles until he picks up a tshirt and brings it up to his nose. He inhales deeply but as the smell hits him, suddenly those tears fall. 

And once they begin, they don’t fucking stop. Because he recognizes the scent. It’s his--  _ was  _ his. It’s what he  _ used  _ to smell like. These are his clothes yet they’re foreign in more ways than one. Suddenly Bucky has something that’s his again and he doesn’t know how to comprehend it.

Bucky holds his clothes close and even though he would never admit it aloud, he knows he’d rather keep wearing Steve’s clothes if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the shitshow of emotions that wrack through his body.

_ God _ , he knows he’s fucked. 

Maybe he’s even more lost than he realized.

There’s something completely dangerous and desperately sad in that and it only makes him wonder if this was Steve’s plan all along. Because whatever Steve’s intention was, it worked.

It fucking worked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously wish I could crank these out once a week but I'm a student and in my junior year of Uni so practically all of my classes call for my full attention. On the bright side, I have like four more weeks until end of term so I'm more than ready to get this bad boy finished because the chapter outlines that I have are seriously awesome if you like some dark themes and let me just say that blood is shed in more than one of these. 
> 
> Oh, and HUGE thanks to everyone that's been leaving kudos and comments! It means the world to me and honestly it's what keeps me motivated to finish this. I obviously love all of you guys!


	7. Backyard Dreams

August 7, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

“I wanna go outside.” 

Steve looks up from his tablet and glances towards Bucky, who’s sitting by the window curled up in his usual spot. Bucky isn’t looking at him, has his head turned towards the window with his eyes settled on something beyond the tree line, and for a few seconds all Steve can do is stare.

Bucky’s wearing his own clothes. And honestly, it’s been taking some getting used to. Not because Bucky looks weird or anything, but because he isn’t covered in something that’s  _ Steve’s,  _ something that signifies Bucky as belonging to him. So when Steve looks towards the younger man and doesn’t find Bucky getting swallowed up in one of Steve’s t-shirts or pullovers, or doesn’t see the fabric of his sweatpants and pajama bottoms pool at Bucky’s feet… it takes a lot out of him, something that almost feels wrong to look at. Now, everything fits Bucky just right--  _ painfully  _ right in the case of those black skinny jeans that hug every inch of those sinful thighs and ass to absolute perfection-- and ever since Steve gave the younger man his clothing, Bucky hasn’t once touched Steve’s.

Now, all of Steve’s clothes stay in their drawers and on their hangers in the closet, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that everytime he sees Bucky come out of the bathroom with clothes on his body that don’t belong to Steve, Steve’s smile gets tight around the edges, forced and almost painful, and he has to resist closing the space between them and stripping Bucky bare only to cover him up seconds later with Steve’s garments-- dressing Bucky up like his own personal doll.  

Deep down, although not really that deep at all, there is a large part of Steve that regrets giving Bucky his belongings back. It’s almost hard to swallow the fact that even in this short span of time, something as insignificant as clothing has become such a huge issue for him. Dictating what clothes someone wears sounds awfully toxic and controlling but there’s no describing the sheer high that Steve had got when Bucky had been wrapped up in Steve’s shirts and pants.

And now that the visual is gone, it stings and bothers him over and over again every time he lays eyes on Bucky, like a swift punch to the gut. Each and every time.  

Steve clears his throat and diverts his eyes to looks back at his tablet. He hasn’t even been reading off the damn thing but there’s only so much pacing around the house to waste time that he can do and really, this is the closest that he can get to Bucky without making things too uncomfortable.

There’s still a fine line that Steve is careful not to cross because the last thing he wants is for Bucky to get frazzled again and go back to locking himself away in the bathroom for hours on end. God forbid Steve having to pull out his medical kit again and start stashing syringes for quick grabs. Because  _ that  _ would suck and they’ve made so much progress that it would probably physically kill Steve to start all the way over again.

“It’s really warm out,” Steve answers back.  _ Obviously _ , Steve thinks to himself, wanting to mentally smack his forehead due to his sheer stupidity. It is summer time after all. “And the mosquitos are pretty bad this time of the year. You’ll get practically eaten alive,” he tries instead.

Bucky pulls his gaze away from the window and settles it on Steve, unblinking. “Then buy some bug spray.”

Steve almosts laughs. He would have if it weren’t for the look on Bucky’s face that says none of what he’s saying is a laughing matter. Bucky is serious about this and for a full minute, Steve doesn’t know what to say in return. Because Bucky can’t go outside, he can’t leave this house-- can’t leave  _ Steve _ .

Steve is far from dumb and he knows that the very second either door opens, Bucky will shoot out and be fucking gone. It was evidence enough when he tried to run back in June and even still thinking about what could have happened sends Steve into semi cardiac arrest.

Bucky just doesn’t understand that even though Steve has essentially locked him away here, it’s Bucky that holds all the power. Steve would do anything for him-- even horrible, godforsaken things that he had learned not to do in Sunday school so many years ago. But this is dealing with  _ Bucky  _ and no one is taking Bucky away from him, including the brunet himself.

“You really want to go outside?” Steve peers at him, his brows furrowed in consideration. He should have known that being indoors for so long would have made Bucky antsy. How often had Steve followed him to the park or the coffee house or walking with Nat and Clint and that golden retriever of theirs? Bucky only ever stayed inside when the sun set and it was too dark to do anything else besides sleep.

Steve should have known better. He should have  _ prepared  _ for this.

Bucky nods his head.

Steve locks his tablet and tosses it onto the cushion beside him, before he stands up. He takes the small steps towards Bucky and the windows, and purposefully ignores how Bucky suddenly tenses as he draws near. Steve moves past the brunet and reaches out to grab the curtains in his hands, pulling them wide open. The sunlight that pools into the room is almost blinding but Steve basks in it nonetheless, copying Bucky from mere minutes ago.

The backyard isn’t a place that Steve has ever really spent time in. As a kid he had always been confined indoors-- a precaution for his endless health problems back in the day-- and as an adult, he was either at work or living lifelessly inside. He didn’t go outside and listen to the birds or tan in the sun or cook out on the grill that needed to be thrown away years ago. But if Bucky wants to go out there…

Still gazing through the window, Steve suddenly pictures Bucky out there, the sun shining down on him and making him radiate in more ways than Steve could possibly ever describe or sketch. He can picture Bucky laid out in the grass, carefree and so  _ peaceful _ , and the longer Steve continues to look, the visual of Bucky is morphed and suddenly the brunet is no longer alone. Steve is with him too; both sprawled out on a blanket with Bucky’s head on his chest and he’s smiling up at Steve with so much affection and they’re both  _ happy _ . Steve’s gaze darts across the lawn, his eyes suddenly hungry at the possibilities he can find.

He can go buy a new grill so him and Bucky could enjoy outdoor cookouts. He can buy a nice hammock so they could lay bundled up together, Bucky on top of him, as they watch the sun set and the stars rise high in the sky. It’ll start getting colder soon so they would have to hold each other tight for warmth. Steve could also hire someone to build a pool, thinking of how intimate their late night swims could be, with Bucky wrapping his arms and legs around Steve, nude and slippery from the water. A hot tub would be nice too and Steve gets breathless thinking about a naked Bucky sitting in his lap, steam surrounding them like a cloud as it rises from the water.

All of it would be so  _ so  _ perfect.

Steve’s lips part and a soft sigh falls from his mouth. He doubts that that’s what Bucky envisions when he says he wants to go outside but the chance of that being their future is too likely for Steve to ignore. It  _ can  _ be there future. All Steve has to do is make it so.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Steve muses aloud. Through his peripherals, he sees how Bucky’s head suddenly shoots in his direction, as if he’s shocked that Steve is actually agreeing with him. A smug smile plays at the corner of Steve’s mouth as he turns and looks at Bucky. “Really. I do.”

Bucky eyes him for a few long seconds, his grey gaze narrowed as if he were trying to see through Steve. “You do?” he asked carefully.

Steve turns back towards the window and shrugs. “Yeah. I do.” He still has his hands clutched at the fabric of the curtains, holding them wide open so that the room gets filled with the natural light from outside. His eyes dart around the barren yard, visioning the projects he’ll be starting soon. It’ll keep him busy for a few weeks if he chooses to do it all by himself. It’ll take less than that if he actually chooses to hire help. It would be easier to get someone else to do it all but can he really trust anyone in his own backyard? All it would take would be one cry of help from Bucky and the calvary would jump in and take him away.

It’s a risk Steve can’t take. At least, not without subduing Bucky first.

“We can put in a security fence-- a back patio too. Maybe even a pool? You want one of those?” Steve twists around and drops his hold of the curtains, honing his attention on Bucky and Bucky only. He’s still so close yet still so far and Steve’s fingers ache to hold the brunet close. He needs the contact and warmth; he needs each and every part of Bucky.  _ Fully _ .  

Bucky doesn’t fall under the weight of Steve’s gaze anymore. The brunet holds his head up high and his grey eyes are sharp as they take in Steve. Bucky leans back into the cushions of the couch and pulls his hands off of his knees, hugging his abdomen instead. His dark brows lift up as he whispers out, “Sure, Steve.”

Steve smiles. That settles it then.

* * *

August 12, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

It doesn’t make sense. 

After so long… after so many weeks… surely  _ someone  _ knows that he’s gone. There’s no way Clint and Nat would be okay with his disappearance, not asking any questions or calling Becca or his parents. And vice versa-- Becca and his parents wouldn’t go so long without hearing his voice even if it were just for a second long phone call. They would be concerned. They would be  _ looking  _ for him.

But everytime Bucky turns on the news and flips through the local stations, there’s  _ nothing _ . There’s fucking nothing and he can only blink at the television screen as it rambles about school starting soon for the kids, or that there’s yet another pizzaria opening up downtown.

He wants to be mad. He wants to be furious at his friends and family for being so-- but he  _ knows  _ that this was part of Steve’s plan from the beginning. Steve had said so himself that he had Bucky’s phone, that he had texted both his friends and family to give him some time. But surely that time has faded out and they have to suspect something, even if only a hunch.

So everyday that passes by, Bucky sits on the couch and flips through the channels hoping to see a flash of his face or hear the brief mention of his name.

But neither occur.

Today is no different and when the 8 o’clock news fades away, he tosses the remote across the couch and picks himself up to take the handful of steps into the kitchen where Steve is. As Bucky crosses the threshold, Steve picks his head up and slides his glasses into his hairline, giving Bucky his full attention like he always does.

If Bucky wasn’t so frustrated and if he was actually there on his own free will, he would find Steve’s actions incredibly heartfelt. A man that gives someone his full attention is a man that cares, like  _ really  _ cares and wants to hear every word that Bucky says. It’s something that Bucky isn’t used to but now that he has it so openly with Steve… it makes it hard to ignore the flutter in his chest, seeing Steve’s affection for what it really is. Sometimes it absolutely floors Bucky how perfect Steve seems to be-- he’s polite, so careful and gentle, so touchy-feely and emotional-- and that if they were in any different scenario, Bucky would be  _ all  _ over Steve. In a fucking heartbeat.

But he knows better. And it’s because of Steve that he’s so goddamn angry.

Bucky stops an arm’s length away from the chair that Steve is sitting at and crosses his arms over his chest. “My phone,” he demands.

“What about it?” Steve asks, his blue eyes actually filled with confusion of all things. His laptop is open and Bucky can see the webpage he’s on, various fences on display. The mouse is hovered over one that is taller than Bucky and made of brick stone rather than wood. Of course. Wood would be too easy to break; brick stone could actually break his bones.

Bucky pulls his gaze away from the laptop screen and focuses back on Steve, swallowing hard. “I think I should call someone. Y’know-- cause they’re gonna be worried-- and-- and I think it would reassure them that I’m okay.”

Steve frowns. “That’s not--”

“It makes the most sense that I call them,” Bucky interrupts. He shuffles from foot to foot, biting the inside of his cheek as he stares at Steve. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he has at this point. “They have to be worried and I know they’ve tried to call or text or--or something.”

“They have been,” Steve shoots back. “I’ve been answering the texts, Bucky. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, do you?” Bucky bites out, his voice hoarse and laced with sarcasm. He may have been pissed before, but now he’s fucking livid. He knew Steve had his phone and had initially sent texts to the others but after all this time he was still doing it? And had never once mentioned it to him? Who knows what Steve was saying, what lies he was stringing together and forcing his family and friends to accept. He had no right. After everything he’s done, and still continues to do, Bucky’s friends and family were off limits.

“What? You have a manual that gives you the 101 on how to fucking kidnap someone and how to keep them locked away? Is that it, Steve?!”

Steve deflates, his head tipping back slightly as he shakes his head. “Buck…” his voice is so sympathetic but all Bucky wants to do is  _ hit  _ him. Hurt him. Make him suffer. Bucky’s eyes dart across the vulnerable spots on Steve’s body, calculating the damage he could do-- the damage he  _ wants  _ to do. But then, Steve’s hand reaches out and Bucky snaps back to the moment and quickly takes a step away, getting out of the blond’s reach.

Steve sighs heavily and drops his hand back onto the table. “You can be mad all you want, Buck. But what do you think any of them would do if they found out about this? They’d take you away and I would never see you again. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

Bucky shoves his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls. He’s losing his damn mind. He’s gonna end up just like Steve; trapped in a false reality of what will never be. Steve is insane and Bucky… Bucky  _ refuses  _ to be the same.

“Fuck you, Steve,” he seethes. Bucky spins on his heel and rushes back into the living room, passing through like a blur. He throws himself onto the couch, laying flat on his back, and shoves his palms into his eyes.

He doesn’t cry but he damn sure wants to.

* * *

August 18, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

It’s always been silent when they’re together but for the past few days, the quiet has been thick and tense, heavy in the air between them.

Steve hasn’t pushed for conversation and he hasn’t been present in the same room as Bucky for more than a few minutes at max, apart for when they share the bed at night. But even then, Bucky stays balanced on the edge and Steve doesn’t try to cross the middle, unused section of the bed that serves as an invisible boundary between the two.

It isn’t awkward-- Bucky’s gotten  _ way  _ past awkwardness when dealing with Steve-- but there’s something that looms over Steve, making him look so much more tired than Bucky has ever seen him before. Bucky almost feels bad and there are plenty of times that he actually wants to apologize for the other night, but then he realizes what he’s thinking and he forcefully shakes his head and  _ refuses  _ to acknowledge that he could have possibly been in the wrong. This is all Steve’s fault.  _ Steve’s _ . Not Bucky’s.

But when they sit down in front of each other and Bucky sees that Steve still has that tired, almost sad look on his face, Bucky has to look away. He digs his front teeth into his bottom lip and keeps his eyes glued onto the tabletop as Steve prepares their plates.

It isn’t until suddenly there’s a steaming plate of casserole sliding into Bucky’s view that he looks back up. The corner of Steve’s mouth raises as they make eye contact but instead of actually speaking, Steve just nods his head towards the plate of food as if to tell Bucky to enjoy.

Surprisingly enough, Bucky feels a flash of disobedience rush through him and before he thinks otherwise, his hand slowly moves from his lap to the top of the table and he pushes the plate away from him.

“I don’t want it,” he informs Steve, not breaking eye contact.

Steve’s blue eyes flick from the untouched plate to Bucky, his brow furrowed slightly. “Do you not like it?”

Bucky almost snorts. Like everything else Steve does, he cooks just as fucking perfectly too. It’s annoying really, how someone so deranged could still be so  _ good  _ too. So of course the food is good-- it’s always good-- but Bucky would rather choke on said food than actually give Steve a compliment, however insignificant it may actually be. It must be because of those stupid health-nut cookbooks that Steve has stacked neatly above the counter, the same ones that Steve goes through and bookmarks their weekly meals like the total nerd he is.

It’s ridiculous.  _ Steve  _ is ridiculous.

“No,” Bucky answers, not missing a beat.

“You’ve eaten this meal before. You ate it then.”

Bucky uses his hand to push the plate away even further, not stopping until the glass clinks with Steve’s own plate. “Well, I don’t want it now.”

Steve drops his fork and leans back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at Bucky and Bucky barely resists the urge to fidget beneath the power of Steve’s gaze. “Are you sure this isn’t your way of being stubborn about the whole phone ordeal? Because you’ve been acting like this for days now and coincidentally, it happened right after I told you no.”

Bucky leans back in his own chair, making a show of mimicking Steve by crossing his arms and narrowing his gaze. “Why on earth would I be upset about that? That’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? Obviously my family and friends mean nothing to me, so why would I want to contact them when I have  _ you  _ instead?”

Steve rolls his eyes and picks up his fork again, ignoring Bucky altogether. Which of course makes Bucky irritated to see how easily Steve dismisses him, as if Bucky has no need to actually contact his loved ones. Bucky wants to snatch Steve’s plate away from him so that the blond will have no choice but to look and pay attention to him, to actually listen to what Bucky is saying. He wants Steve’s attention. On him. On his needs.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and swallows down the words that want to come up. It won’t do any good to scream or throw all the food across the table. Last time Bucky did that, Steve hadn’t hesitated to sink a needle into Bucky’s neck. So he’ll pass on that again. He can shout but the effort seems more exhausting than anything and really, Bucky feels so drained he just wants to pass the fuck out.  

“I can make you something else if you want,” Steve offers instead. Bucky scratches at the inside of his wrist, feeling the nerves all along his flesh tingle at Steve’s sincerity. The eagerness to please is strong like always, Steve’s eyes so sincere and open and peering right into Bucky’s soul. How is it that Bucky can hate the man in front of him so  _ much  _ yet actually... admire him as well? A true gentleman through and through only a bit fucked up in the head.

Bucky shakes his head though and pulls his arms into his lap. “I’m not hungry.” he answers, his voice sounding breathy more than anything. It’s the truth too. He has so much inner turmoil brewing through his skull that the thought of eating actually feels like a chore.

For a long while, Steve stays silent. His blue gaze eyes Bucky’s abandoned plate for several seconds, something troubled yet unreadable in those bright blues. For a moment Bucky thinks that Steve is going to make him eat because it’s something that Steve would do, probably being concerned with Bucky’s nutrition intake for the day or whatever other bullshit that Steve keeps track of. Because he  _ does  _ keep track, calculating their meals to the very percentages of factors that Bucky has never even heard of. Bucky has witnessed Steve with his own two eyes as the blond actually took the time to measure out an exact amount of salt, using a weight balance and everything. From the look of Steve, he doesn’t  _ need  _ to watch what he eats and Bucky’s never been the kind of person to pack on pounds so really, there is no need for any of it. Yet still Steve stays set in his ways, almost meticulously so.

Bucky gets caught in his thoughts however, when Steve’s gaze flicks up. “I won’t force you Buck but… but next time I will, okay?”

Bucky believes him. He  _ always  _ believes Steve because the blond is always straight up with him, tells him what he can or can’t do, never tries to play Bucky’s emotions or give him false hope. When Steve tells Bucky no, he means it. When Steve says he’ll force Bucky to eat next time, he means that too.

Bucky nods his head. He stays sitting there in his chair and stares at Steve’s fingers that wrap around the fork in his hand. They’re nice fingers; thick and strong yet slim and nimble at the same time. Bucky trails the lines of Steve’s fingers down to his hands, then to his wrists. He knows the power of those hands. He knows the feeling of those hands on his skin, the warmth that radiates from them.

Beneath the table, Bucky rubs his palms up and down his forearms, trying to chase that feeling that he’s become accustomed to. That feeling of warmth and gentle caresses across his flesh. It doesn’t feel the same though. It doesn’t feel as good nor as comforting.

Bucky swallows heavily when he realizes the reason behind his unease. It’s because the hands on his own body aren’t Steve’s.

And  _ fuck _ , does that throw Bucky for a loop.

* * *

August 20, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

Steve stands in front of the coffee machine, drumming his fingers against the countertop as the dark liquid drips into the glass pot. It’s old fashioned, and pretty outdated but it was his ma’s and he’s never thought about replacing it with one of those newer machines that he sees practically everywhere nowadays. There’s always been something comforting hearing the sizzle of the machine, getting to watch it come to life drip by drip until there’s an entire steaming pot ready. 

Usually, it’s relaxing.

Today, however, he hardly pays it any attention. Instead, his gaze is trained on a hardstock 3.5 x 2 inch business card that lays between his hands. The ten digits on the surface seem to laugh at him, as if they can sense his unease with the whole situation. The problem is that he doesn’t know a damn thing about building a fence or a patio, and he has no clue or manpower to build a pool. So he knows--  _ has  _ known since that night he told Bucky he would start fixing up the backyard, that he’s going to need help, even though he downright hates the idea of strangers showing up at his house and doing god knows what in his backyard.

But still… Bucky wants to go outside and the only way that can happen is if the security out there is just as good as it is inside. Steve has no choice here. He’s trying to do what’s best, even if it wouldn’t be his most ideal option.

Steve sighs heavily to himself and straightens up, plucking the card off the counter and holding it between his fingers. With his other hand, he digs into his pocket and pulls out his cellphone. Before he knows it and more importantly, before he can second guess himself, Steve’s dialing up the ten digits and holding the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring.

It takes a few seconds until suddenly, the line clicks and there’s a man’s voice on the other side. It’s a voice that Steve is starting to recognize. “Barton Supplies, this is Clint, how may I help you today?”

* * *

August 22, 2015

* * *

 

Two days later, Steve is watching as Bucky sleeps. Bucky is hidden beneath his cocoon of blankets but Steve can see the rise and fall of his breathing. It’s pretty early in the morning, just past six, and although it isn’t necessarily taboo for Steve to be awake at this time, Bucky usually doesn’t get up until nine. Which normally isn’t a problem but today it actually is since Clint and his workers said they would arrive at ten. 

Steve has had anxiety about Clint’s arrival since the very second he hung up on their phone call two day ago, after he set his appointment. He’s nervous as hell and practically vibrates with the tension of the possibility of Clint somehow finding Bucky. It’s been eating him alive for hours on end because the thought of Bucky leaving… Steve can’t handle it.  He  _ can’t _ .

It would be so cruel for the brunet to be taken away now, after everything. Who would Steve wake up to? Who would Steve take care of? Who would wait for Steve until he got home? Without Bucky, Steve’s life would be so lonely again, so empty and unbearable now that he knows what it’s like to have someone else, to have someone mean absolutely  _ everything  _ for him.

So when Bucky eventually begins to stir, Steve is more than ready to see those beautiful eyes open. When they do, the breath stills in Steve’s lungs as he’s reminded once more on how the young man has somehow taken full control of Steve’s world and his very  _ soul _ .

“Goodmorning,” he whispers, a smile sliding onto his face as Bucky’s head emerges from the blankets and he rubs sleepily at his eyes.

“Mm, what time is it?”

Steve reaches his arm out and pulls the blanket back slightly so he can see more of Bucky, exposing his covered torso and arms. “Time to wake up,” Steve answers back. “You hungry? Thirsty?”

“No,” Bucky sighs and drops his arms on his chest, turning on his side and curling in on himself. Bucky’s always like this in the morning, his movements drowsy and always prolonged as if to get every last ounce of sleep that he can. It’s downright adorable. It also makes Steve want to curl up beside Bucky, wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist and just hold on. Forever.

Eventually they’ll get to that point. It may not be today, or tomorrow, or a week from now, but it’ll happen.  _ It will _ , Steve promises himself.  

“Can’t just lay in bed forever, Buck,” Steve teases.

Bucky groans and turns back around onto his back, his eyes closed again. Steve catches sight of bare skin and realizes that with all of his twisting and turning, Bucky’s shirt has ridden up past his belly button. Steve’s throat goes dry at the visual and he has to swallow heavily before his body gets out of control. He would die a  _ very  _ happy man if he could just reach out and skim his fingers along Bucky’s exposed flesh. Steve’s eyesight gets fuzzy just thinking about it.

“Yes I can. We should just sleep forever,” Bucky whispers.

Steve knows that Bucky is still half asleep, honestly he does, but  _ still _ , the brunet included Steve in his sentence, not saying ‘I’ but  _ ‘we’ _ and that means the absolute world to him. It’s just a reminder how much things have changed between them in just a few months, and how much there’s still to come. Bucky’s words are like promise of their future even if he doesn’t actually know it.

“You need to eat something at least,” Steve whispers back.

Bucky opens his eyes again and turns his head to the right, looking at Steve. The space between them is almost nonexistent, less than a few inches due to Steve’s need to be close, but surprisingly enough, Bucky doesn’t pull away. It’s obvious from the way Bucky’s eyes flitter down to the small empty space between them that the brunet notices it, but then his gaze trickles back up and he nods slightly. “Pancakes,” Bucky mumbles, watching Steve closely. “ _Chocolate_ _chip_ pancakes _,”_ he ads with a shy, barely-there grin.

“That’s what you want?”

Bucky nods his head again, his gaze still pinned onto Steve. There’s a look in Bucky’s eyes that Steve hasn’t seen before and he can feel the effects of it tingle down his spine, something electric and alive and  _ oh so right _ .

“Then pancakes, you shall get.” Steve picks up himself up from the bed and pads across their bedroom. Even as he crosses the threshold, he can feel Bucky’s gaze on him.

His smile stays stretched across his face as he makes his way down the stairs. Steve has a strong feeling that pancakes are going to be his new favorite food.  _ Chocolate chip pancakes _ , he has to remind himself.

* * *

Steve fiddles with the plates as he reaches up to put them away in the cabinets. He’s hardly paying any attention to what he’s actually doing because his gaze is set on Bucky, watching as the young man flips through the channels on the tv.

He’s biting away at the inside of his cheeks and when he darts a look at the clock on the wall, it reads 9:37am. Steve takes a deep breath because there’s only about twenty minutes until Clint and the other workers arrive and the sedative that Steve put in Bucky’s coffee either hasn’t taken effect yet or he hadn’t put enough. Which, Steve knows damn well that he had but maybe the overwhelming amount of sugar and creamer that Bucky added in are ruining its intended purpose.

So truthfully, Steve’s kinda losing his shit. He’s nearly vibrating with the amount of nerves that are shooting throughout his system because he can’t risk giving Bucky a syringe dosage and he most certainly can’t count on Bucky not to scream his head off the very second he becomes aware of visitors on their property. He’s stuck with either chancing Bucky getting put into a damn coma because of the mix of medications or, leaving Bucky wide awake. Steve is fucked is what he is. This whole situation was a risk that Steve shouldn’t have taken.

Steve hastily steps towards the living room and he reaches for his phone in his back pocket, having the full intention to call Clint and postpone the appointment for the backyard. Considering how far Steve lives from the city, he knows that Clint and the men are probably already on their way here but Steve doesn’t give a damn. He can bullshit his way through unmeaningful apologies. His fingers are already re-dialing the number when he hears the faint sound of something clattering to the floor.

His head darts up at the noise and it takes only a few footsteps until he’s standing in the living room. Steve’s gaze automatically trains on Bucky and what he sees makes him exhale a deep breath of relief, his fingers moving to return his phone to his pocket. Because there Bucky is, sitting in his corner of the couch with his head cushioned in the pillows and his arm held lifelessly out by his side. Bucky’s palm is face up and his fingers are slightly curled and when Steve darts a curious look towards the floor, he sees the remote that must have fallen from Bucky’s hand.

A soft smile makes its way onto Steve’s face. Bucky always looks so young and innocent when he sleeps, with no worries on his face or any tension in his body. He’s laid out so peacefully yet so vulnerable to the world, to the outsiders. Steve knows that the safest place that Bucky could ever be is with him, next to him, in this house and away from everything else. Away from everyone else.

Steve walks towards Bucky and pulls the throw blanket from the end of couch, sliding it over Bucky’s body once he steps right beside him. Steve makes sure every inch of Bucky is covered before he leans down and plucks the remote up from the floor. He throws it onto an empty seat and as he rightens himself back up, he pauses as he gets eye level with Bucky. Of course Bucky is asleep but Steve is so close that he can physically feel the soft warmth radiating off of Bucky. The pull to get even closer is irresistible and Steve leans forward, ghosting his hand up along Bucky’s face. He presses a kiss into Bucky’s hair, letting his fingers intertwine through the soft brown locks. But when Steve goes to pull away, his traitorous eyes flick to Bucky’s mouth and suddenly he’s trapped, not being able to look away.

He’s dreamed of this moment for weeks now. It would be so easy to do it now, with Bucky fast asleep, unknowingly yet laid out so temptingly. Bucky’s lips are pink and plump, and Steve has been plagued with the unknowing thoughts of what those lips would feel like against Steve’s own. And he can’t bare it for one more second.

Steve inches forward and holds his breath when he crowds into Bucky’s space. He can feel Bucky’s faint breaths brush against his cheeks and it’s almost painful with how close they are. His fingers are still molded against Bucky’s skull and as he moves forward even more, he’s suddenly right  _ there _ . All he needs to do is incline his chin slightly and their lips would meet, touch and become one. He could do it. He wants to do it.

But he also wants  _ Bucky  _ to want it too.

Steve turns his head slightly and instead of planting his lips against Bucky’s, he kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth instead. The contact still makes the air in Steve’s lungs still and for now, it’s enough.


	8. Drug of an Angel

Bucky woke up to a patio in the backyard. 

Well, technically he woke up to the taupe fabric of the couch cushion but when he sat up, the curtains in the living room were pulled wide open and he could see it all there-- the light brown-grey boards extending from the back door that end with a short wall made of grey limestone. It’s… Bucky has to blink at the visual because that hadn’t… none of that had been there before he went to sleep. He would have noticed it, surely.

Bucky picks himself up from the couch and pads towards the windows, blinking even harder to make sure he actually hasn’t finally lost his damn mind and is seeing shit now. He cranes his neck to peek at the analog clock Steve put up on the wall and he frowns to see that it’s just past five in the afternoon. Which…  _ what _ ?

He remembers eating breakfast that morning, remembers seeing the clock read 9:30. He remembers watching the news, hoping like always, and he remembers hearing Steve mess around in the kitchen. Everything after that is… there’s nothing after that, actually.

Bucky turns his head back around and peers into the backyard. Effectively, his mouth drops open because the patio is large and-- and gorgeous, really, but how the hell did it get put up? There’s no way Steve could do all of that in just a few hours. It would take--

His eyes widen. Bucky feels his heart rate start to race inside his chest because what are the odds that he passed out the day and hours a construction team came to revamp Steve’s yard? The odds were next to none. Which meant… which meant that Steve had slipped him something.

Bucky wanted to be furious. He could recognize the feelings start to bubble up beneath his skin, how his vision started to turn hazy with his anger. But just as fast as it started to emerge, it began to fizzle out, slinking back into the deep crevasse in which it came from.

Truthfully, he couldn’t blame Steve, could he? If there was a team of handymen coming to build something as extravagant as that patio, he knows that Steve wouldn’t risk the possibility of Bucky doing something that would jeopardize what they have here. Drugging Bucky is something a smart person would do. And Steve is most definitely a smart person if he could go through all of this without any hitches in his plans.

Bucky almost wants to applaud him. Then again, he also wants to chunk the tv at Steve too.

It’s a nice balance of praise and hate.

Letting his emotions stay in check, Bucky lets his gaze scour the yard. There’s an extremely large pile of the same limestone brick off to the side, which Bucky guesses is to be put into use for the fence that Steve had been so adamant about. There’s also tall beams that extend from the end of the patio where it seems like there’s the beginning stages of a canopy in the process of being built. As much as Bucky doesn’t want to admit, whatever Steve has planned is actually turning out to be a huge improvement from how it was prior. It’s starting to look more livable.

Even more concerning, Bucky actually can’t wait to see how it turns out.

Just then, Steve glides down the stairs. His hair is damp as if he just got out of the shower and when Steve scopes out the room for him, Bucky watches as Steve visibly brightens up once he lands sight on Bucky. “Hey, your awake,” Steve smiles.

He doesn’t really know what to say to that so Bucky doesn’t say anything at all, only nods his head as Steve gets closer. The blond steps right beside Bucky, letting his bright blue gaze scan out into the backyard. Their so close that Steve’s shoulder presses up against Bucky’s, and Bucky can feel the warmth of the shower still lingering along Steve’s skin, even through his t-shirt.

“It’s coming out good, right?” Steve turns to eye Bucky’s reaction, to see him nod his head again. Steve’s gaze lingers like he wants to say something more but instead, he turns back towards the window, swallowing heavily. “I figured the patio would be the best to build first but that means the fence will be last. I know you want to go outside, Buck, trust me, I know, but--”

“I understand,” Bucky rushes out. He takes a deep breath, letting it fill up his lungs as he holds it. He doesn’t need Steve to say it. When he saw the progress of the yard, seeing the fence not up yet, he figured as much. If Steve couldn’t risk Bucky inside without locks on every door and reinforced glass on every window, there was no way he’d risk Bucky outside without a single barrier. Bucky’s not disappointment, it’s what he expects.

Steve nods his head, darting out his tongue to lick his lips. “Soon though,” he supplies instead.

It would be a lie if Bucky were to say he didn’t get some form of satisfaction from that. Going outside is something he can look forward to, something that he can hope for, even if only for a few minutes.

Then, Steve straightens up, his brows shooting up as he remembers something. “Oh, I couldn’t decide which fabric we should use for the outdoor curtains on the canopy so, I, uh, was hoping you could?” Steve gives him a sheepish look, almost as if he’s shy suddenly. It’s the most unsure he’s ever seen Steve before. Seeing the look almost makes Bucky feel strangely confident since Steve is trusting Bucky enough to have a better style sense than him.

He can’t help the rush of excitement that he gets when Steve walks over towards the counter, picking up a large clipboard of samples. Steve walks back towards Bucky, holding it out for him to take. “Whichever one you want, I’ll get.”

Bucky’s sure his surprise is written all over his face. But still, he takes the clipboard from Steve and lets his fingers trail against the swatches. “Cool,” he murmurs, then adding, “Thanks,” when he darts a glance at Steve’s face and sees the small smile there.

The corner of Bucky’s own mouth threatens to twitch upwards but he smothers it before it gets the chance to come alive. He has to tear his gaze away from Steve before the urge becomes too much, choosing to stare back down at the clipboard of samples.

If he thought picking fabric for couches was hard, picking fabric for canopy curtains was twice the headache.

* * *

September 4, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

“Summer is pretty much over, right?” Bucky asks him right after Steve has cleaned off the counters in the kitchen. The brunet is perched on a stool and his fingers continuously pick at one another, but his gaze is trained on Steve, watching his every move.

They just finished preparing a lasagne-- or well, Steve prepared it while Bucky finished it off with a top layer of mozzarella-- which is now baking in the stove for the next hour or so and usually Bucky would just pull away and go to the living room but today, he stays, looking at and talking to Steve. The sharpness of Bucky’s gaze is something that Steve is still getting used to because it’s still relatively new in comparison to how long it took for the weariness and fright to eventually fade. Bucky’s eyes have always been beautiful, with so many hues of ice and rain and emotions that live in there so it takes a lot for Steve to actually look away. Therefore when Bucky’s eyes are on him, Steve’s are on Bucky too.

Steve walks to the counter that Bucky sits at and plants his palms on the surface, nodding. “In the next few weeks it should be gone. Winter’s my favorite so I’m not complaining,” he answers. “Although driving in the snow can be a hassle sometimes.”

Bucky doesn’t react. There’s a stare on his face that looks far away, seeing something that Steve can’t. The younger man doesn’t look sad but he doesn’t look entirely happy either. With Bucky’s silence, Steve continues on.

“Sometimes it gets real bad out here but the heating inside the house is pretty good. A few years back I had in-floor heating installed and there’s plenty of backup generators for when the power goes out. I wanted to put in solar--”

“I don’t want to be in here anymore, Steve,” Bucky speaks, so softly that Steve almost misses it.  _ Almost _ .  

And Steve… Steve knows that Bucky wants to get out. Honestly, he does. He gets it. He’s tried to buy himself time, he tried keeping Bucky busy by showing him pool designs, different brick layouts, and swatches of curtain fabrics. He’s spent hours designing the pool with Bucky, debating whether it should be six feet or seven in the deep end, or if three pool ladders was excessive or safe, or if they should have circular pool lights or rectangles. Steve has been keeping Bucky occupied so that he wouldn’t think about going outside until it was ready but it wasn’t exactly Steve’s fault that Clint Barton and his crew had a big housing project for the next week and a half. So now, there’s a small portion of the fence built but in no means is it enough to keep Bucky  _ in _ .

Steve’s shoulders sag as he exhales. “Buck…”

Bucky shakes his head, refusing to hear whatever it was that Steve was about to say. “No, I want to go outside. Just--Just for a little bit.  _ Please _ , Steve.” The brunet’s eyes are wide and he looks at Steve, the desperation shining bright for what it is. Because desperation has long ago taken over him, left him to the point of practically begging for what he wants. All that’s missing is Bucky on his knees and Steve would probably die if Bucky did that, that he’d been broken and diminished to begging on his damn knees. Hearing Bucky ask for something so small yet so large at the same time truly tugs at Steve’s conscious, making him swallow thickly.

“The fence isn’t done yet.”

Bucky slides off his stool and rounds the counter, his gaze still not leaving Steve’s. “We don’t need a fence. We can just walk-- just-- please, Steve. It’s been months since I’ve been outside and you said so yourself that summer’s almost over so I’m asking, Steve,  _ please _ , just this one time.”

Steve looks down at Bucky, takes in the urgency of his tone, takes in how his grey eyes shine with so much emotion and how they pierce right into Steve’s soul. And how can he resist Bucky like that? When Bucky is asking for something, so straightforward and determined, how can Steve say no? What Bucky wants… Bucky should get.

But it is a risk. A  _ large  _ risk. Then again, inviting a construction crew over was also one and just look at how smoothly that has been so far-- no hiccups, no screaming Bucky begging to be released. It would be a small favor on Steve’s behalf yet it would make such an impact on Bucky. It would show the brunet just how much Steve cares for his well being and his happiness.

Besides, it would only be for a little while. Until the food was finished, at least. Less than an hour, really. But less than an hour is plenty of time to run to the nearest neighbor. It’s enough time to get to the main road that connects to the city.

It’s enough time for Bucky to vanish.

_ Unless  _ something were to stop him.

Steve thinks of a dog on a leash. He remembers the rope he has stored in the shed but thinking about Bucky leashed up like an animal doesn’t sit right with him. He has to hold Bucky someway to keep him from fleeing and if a leash is way too extreme, Steve is going to have to use something far more simple.

He may not trust Bucky not to run, but he damn sure trusts the power of his hands not to let go.

“On one condition,” he says, finally, making sure his voice is strong and firm so that Bucky won’t get any wrong ideas. “You hold my hand the entire time, Buck, and I mean the  _ entire  _ time.”

Before he even finishes speaking, Bucky is hastily nodding his head. “Yes, yes, Steve. I won’t let go, I swear.” The brunet is practically vibrating on his feet with how eager he is to  _ go, go, go. _ Then again, if Steve were trapped inside for months on end, he supposes he would be ready to leave too.

Steve holds out his hand, palm up, and smiles when Bucky quickly captures it with his own hand. It’s Steve that pulls the younger man towards the back door and it’s Steve that quickly types the code into the keypad after he darts a look at Bucky and sees the brunet’s head turned toward the window.

His fingers work quick and soon enough, the loud click signaling the door being unlocked rings into the air. Bucky looks forward and after a few seconds of nothing, he darts a glance up at Steve, meeting his gaze in question.

On the inside, and maybe even on the outside, Steve is slightly freaking out. His grip is tight around Bucky’s hand, so tight that he may even be bruising but Steve doesn’t hear any complaints on Bucky’s behalf so he doesn’t let up. He’s looking down at Bucky, so many words forming on his tongue that he doesn’t even know where to begin. His heart is racing and he can feel the strength of his pulse thumping throughout his body, knowing Bucky can feel it too.

“Bucky--,” he begins, feeling his throat constrict in worry, “--if you try and run… if you even--”

Bucky’s hand tightens around Steve’s, not looking away as he nods in understanding. “Steve, I know,” he whispers back. Then, shocking Steve more than ever before, Bucky repositions his hand so that his fingers intertwine through Steve’s.

Steve knows what the gesture is. It’s a silent promise between them, the actions speaking louder than Bucky or him ever could. But it’s there nonetheless, and it’s enough for Steve to feel some of his worry dissipate

It doesn’t mean, however, that Steve’s grip isn’t like a vice around Bucky’s when he pushes the door open. Because it most definitely is.

* * *

Bucky

* * *

 

The very second that Bucky steps through the threshold of the back door, the sunlight that slips onto his face makes him want to cry.

His eyes close as he tips his head back slightly, just for a second, to embrace the natural warmth that he hasn’t felt in so  _ so  _ long.

He hasn’t felt in so many months that it actually feels like it burns his skin. He’s seen his reflection in the mirror every time he enters and exits the shower and he knows how pale he’s become, how the slight tan that he’s always had since childhood has vanished and left pale, pasty skin in it’s departure. In the sunlight now, Bucky wants to reach up and shade his face because it stings and he can feel the rays sinking into his skin each and every second he stays out there, but he  _ wants  _ to feel it. When he gets into the shower later, he wants to see his cheeks pink, even if only for a few days because it’ll remind him that he actually got out.

Sure he isn’t actually out  _ out _ , but he’s not going to ignore the small victories.

Besides, even if he truly wanted to run and get as far away as he could, Steve’s hand is wrapped around him like a manicle, even tighter than the wrist cuff the blond had put on him that very first day. Bucky has no doubt Steve’s fingers will leave bruises and he also has no doubt that if he tried to yank free, tried to twist his arm and run, Steve would break his wrist with an easy squeeze.

And Bucky’s never been one for pain. If he can avoid it, he’s damn well going to. He still grimaces remembering how badly he sprained his wrist, remembering how it had taken weeks until the aches had finally gone away. So now, Bucky stays in step with Steve, making sure he doesn’t get too far behind or ahead, just to show that he doesn’t plan on bolting-- or at least that’s what  _ Steve  _ will think.

They walk down the steps of the patio hand in hand, and Steve starts pointing and explaining what certain areas are going to be, what parts of their plan will be put into effect and how, but Bucky hears none of it. He nods his head pretending to be going along with what Steve’s saying but instead, his gaze trickles across the yard and to the trees in the distance. His eyes dart back and forth trying to find a break in the woods, perhaps spot a house he could run to or a road or-- or  _ something _ .

But there’s nothing. Truly  _ nothing  _ but trees and leaves and more fucking trees and leaves. It’s all so isolated, with Steve’s house seemingly existing in the middle of fucking nowhere. Seeing how alone they really are makes Bucky remember those days in the beginning when he screamed his head off until his voice went out. He remembers shouting for someone to help him, to find him, but seeing how far they are from anyone or anything, makes him realize just how right Steve had been when the blond had said no one would hear him. All of his efforts weren’t worth a damn out here.

It feels like a pit of hopelessness blooms deep in his stomach, something dark and twisted that makes him want to run until he can’t feel his legs any longer, until he would collapse and never have to wake up again. The woods surrounding them represent Bucky’s freedom, yet they also represent his isolation to the rest of the world.

He wonders that if he screams right then and there, someone might hear him. But if there was no one, then it would just show Steve that he wants to get away and if Bucky ever wants this small slice of freedom to be repeated, he can’t risk that.

There’s too much to risk running off into the woods.

Bucky’s hand tightens around Steve’s as they trail further into the woods, with Steve leading the way. The blond is careful to watch where they step, pulling Bucky one way when there’s a large rock jutting out of the earth or a dip in the ground that could easily make him lose his footing. The further they go, the more wild the nature becomes. There’s fallen trees, fields of rocks the size of Bucky’s head, even plants that look too much like poison ivy to be taken lightly. It looks more than dangerous and there’s no way in hell that Bucky could run more than ten feet without twisting an ankle or breaking his fucking leg.

It’s quiet too, insanely so that it almost rings inside Bucky’s skull. All that drifts into the air is their breathing, the sounds of the leaves and twigs and rocks crunching beneath their feet. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine, but then the time travels on and all he can focus on is him and Steve, their clasped hands, and how their feet move in sync. When he realizes it, he takes a wavered breath, forcing himself to get distracted.

“Steve, where are we?” he asks. It’s no use scoping out his surroundings anymore so he looks up towards Steve instead. Outside, the sun shines down on Steve’s head and makes it seem as if his hair is glowing, like a ethereal halo of an angel. Which… no, that’s the farthest thing Steve could ever be.

It’s still a sight to see though. One that makes Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest.

“This was the house I grew up in,” Steve answers, not breaking their steps. “My mom raised me here and it was her parents before that, so it’s my family’s house, really. We’re far from the city but we’re close enough.”

Bucky tries to envision a toddler Steve, running out in the trees, catching fireflies in the summer evenings and building little forts with the stones. He tries to think of a young Steve playing video games in the living room or maybe listening to music in his bedroom, carefree as his teenage self jammed out to Nirvana and Weezer. He tries to imagine Steve human and oddly enough, he can imagine it all.

It actually makes him want to smile.

“Do you like it out here?” he continues on. Truly, he’s curious. The house seems so lonely, out where no one else is, and Bucky just isn’t used to it. He’s used to living in the city and before that, the house-to-house neighborhood that his own family’s house resided in, all the way back in Indiana. Steve’s house is different, in more ways that Bucky is used to, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less. It has its own charm if Bucky’s being honest, a house that millions would long for. Bucky himself included in said millions.

“I like that it’s secluded,” Steve says. “I used to live in an apartment in the city when I was in school but I came back here when I finished and I haven’t left since. I could if I wanted to but… it’s home, y’know?”

Bucky nods like he understands. He nods because he  _ wants  _ to understand. Back in Indiana, it may have once been his home when he was a kid but now that he’s become an adult on his own, it’s never really felt like it was  _ his _ . Even if he were to inherit it down the road, it would always be his parents house. When he moved to Brooklyn, he had hoped to create something of his own, having something that truly was his but… but that was no longer in the process. Instead, he was in Steve’s home-- the home in which Bucky slept, ate, watched tv, and showered in for months, the house that he’s currently helping design. All of it is stuff that Bucky had been hoping to do in his own home instead.

Somehow, Bucky hadn’t been keeping track of where they were going and when he catches sight of Steve’s home, his brows furrowed in confusion. He hadn’t realized that Steve circled them around. Even more concerning, Bucky hadn’t noticed how the sun had started to set, showing just how much time they had spent outside.

It isn’t until they trail back towards the backdoor with Steve beginning to ascend up the patio steps, when Bucky plants his feet. Steve is quick to turn his head, his eyes capturing Bucky’s and all they can do is stare at one another, so many emotions and words not being said flaring up between them. Their entangled fingers hang in the empty space that separates them, both of their arms outstretched. Steve must see the trouble in Bucky’s gaze-- the look that says Bucky is one second away deciding whether or not to just run.

Steve’s jaw clenches as if he’s bracing himself for the fight. “...Bucky,” he whispers. It sounds too much like a warning to Bucky’s ears. It sounds like Steve’s trying to remind him what’s actually happening then and there, that one wrong move could end everything.

Bucky’s heart is pounding in his chest and it’s as if his body is preparing for him to flee. There’s a small voice inside his head telling him to turn on his heel and bolt and to not look back, and Bucky moves his weight onto the tips of his toes ready to do just that, when Steve takes a step down. Bucky’s thoughts shift back onto Steve, forgetting the trees and the blue sky. He looks at Steve and remembers the isolation of the house, of them, and he forgets that there’s help out there, somewhere if he were to go looking.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, his voice stronger this time. Bucky blinks and lets his gaze melt into Steve’s. He can see the worry burning in Steve’s blue eyes but he can also see the determination that blazes even stronger. Bucky knows with every fiber of his being that if he were to run, Steve would follow.

Steve would  _ always  _ follow. Bucky knows that as strongly as he knows his first name.

He takes a deep breath and pushes his legs into motion. Instead of taking a step backwards,  _ away  _ from Steve, Bucky takes one forward, walking up the steps  _ to  _ Steve.

Steve is quick to pull him close into his side, tucking Bucky beneath his arm. Bucky feels it when Steve takes a deep breath of relief and feels when Steve presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. Bucky could shrug away but he doesn’t.

He could do a lot of things. But. He doesn’t.

Steve opens the back door again, guides Bucky in first, then shuts it firmly behind them. The world is closed off once again but this time, it’s easier for Bucky to handle.

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

He’s felt like he’s needed to explode all day. 

Holding Bucky’s hand for almost a straight hour, standing so close together-- it was everything he’s ever possibly hoped for. And he just can’t handle it anymore.

It’s like an itch that stays constant beneath his skin, an itch that he can’t scratch yet only seems to lessen it’s intensity when he has Bucky in his arms. Sometimes it’s so severe that he feels like an addict at times. Then again, maybe he  _ is  _ addicted. It wouldn’t be that far of a reach, all things considered, and he can physically feel when he hits his high. When Bucky is close.

That’s what his drug is--  _ Bucky _ . 

Nighttime is when he gets his largest fix. That night is no different and he props himself up on his elbow as he watches the soft rises and falls of Bucky’s chest as he sleeps.

For once, Bucky actually fell asleep on his own. The second he hit the pillow, he was out, and Steve figured it was due to their time outside. It wasn’t anything strenuous but it was different than Bucky’s normal routine so it had to have some physical toll on him. Not to mention the adrenalin spike that Bucky must have felt too when he had that split second of indecision, whether to run or not. 

Bucky  _ didn’t  _ run though and Steve swears his whole world tilted when Bucky took that step forward rather than back. Because that  _ meant something. _ If Bucky didn’t want to stay there, with Steve, he would have bolted. There was no fence, no locks to keep him in. If Bucky truly wanted to escape he would of at least tried and he didn’t.

Maybe, just maybe, Bucky is finally starting to see their life blend together. Maybe Bucky is starting to feel things towards him that he’s felt towards Bucky for a long while now.

The thought sends a soft smile drifting across Steve’s face as he looks down at Bucky’s slumbering form. The brunet is facing toward him for once and up close as they are, Steve can trace his features in the dark. He’s never gotten over how beautiful Bucky is, and knows that he never will. There’s a grace that the brunet has, even when he doesn’t try, like he moves with silent purpose and precision.

Steve leans in closer and breathes Bucky in, smelling the familiar tingle of their shampoo and from there, he loses his control, something primal taking over as he realizes their scents are one of the same. Steve doesn’t care anymore. He can’t go on spending his days with Bucky but not having Bucky too. He needs to fill his urges.

He musters up the courage with a firm nod of his head and lifts his right hand up to rest on Bucky’s hip. The touch is gentle and barely there that it must feel like a breeze more than anything. The material beneath Steve’s hand is soft and although Steve would be happy to just stay like that, feeling Bucky just by his side, he needs more. He would usually tamper that need, but tonight, he just can’t. He  _ can’t _ .

Slowly, and holding his breath, Steve dips his fingers beneath the fabric of Bucky’s t-shirt. He stills as he comes into contact with Bucky’s warmth and his gaze frantically darts to Bucky’s face, making sure the brunet stays asleep. Steve doesn’t move for several long seconds as he stares at Bucky’s face, waiting for the smallest of movements or twitches or telltale signs of regaining consciousness but Bucky doesn’t stir. His breathing stays even and deep, his chest continues to rise and fall at a slow pace. Even still, Steve doesn’t chance it until minutes have passed.

He adjusts his hand so that his palm lays flat against Bucky’s skin, his fingers curving along Bucky’s hip. Steve’s lips fall open as he quietly gasps at the contact because Bucky is so warm and so fucking smooth to the touch. If only a small piece of Bucky could feel so good, Steve can only wonder how the rest of him feels too, with nothing covering him.

But taking off Bucky’s clothes is something Steve would never do without Buck’s consent. He’ll take the skin contact instead, until Bucky is comfortable to make that decision when the time comes. 

Steve lets his hand travel further up along Bucky’s side until his fingertips graze over Bucky’s ribs. He can trace each dip between the bones and even under his fingers, Steve can feel how fragile they are. The cage of someone’s chest is easily the most important part of their body, how it protects the vital organs on the inside and Bucky is in no terms different from everyone else. Steve lets his palm rest against Bucky’s side, spreading his fingers out wide so that he can feel every breath that Bucky takes, feeling how his ribs rise and fall with each lungful of air. It gives him a peace of mind feeling how even his breaths are, even when he had no concern to begin with. Just feeling the life within Bucky makes something swell up inside of Steve, knowing that he’s protecting Bucky from a world that hurts and devours someone as vulnerable. Bucky being with Steve is all the protection he’ll ever need especially when no one knows where to find him.  

Steve loses track of how long he fascinates himself with feeling Bucky breathe. It could be minutes but it could also be hours. Steve doesn’t bother to check; he’s much to content as he is to break their contact. In that time, however, Bucky stays asleep. Even better, Bucky stays facing him, giving Steve everything he needs.

But looking at Bucky’s face for so long makes Steve want more. He gets a flash of Bucky asleep on the couch the day Barton arrived, the day Steve decided to push their limits, and he can only wonder what would happen if he expanded those limits just a bit more. Once the idea is there, it doesn’t leave, and it’s all Steve can think about as he keeps staring down at the brunet. His face moves before he’s even aware of it. His lips find Bucky’s cheek and it’s like a sweet, heavenly blessing of returning home. The contact feels so right, like this is what they’re supposed to be doing at all times. He lets his lips slide down Bucky’s jaw, not so much as kissing but just hovering above the smooth flesh, relishing in the feeling.

When he reaches as far as he can without straining his neck, Steve pulls back to be able to see Bucky’s entire face once more. They’re closer than before. Steve is so close that they are practically nose to nose now. But Steve doesn’t focus on Bucky’s nose. No, his gaze travels further south until he finds Bucky’s mouth. He’s embedded the image of them to memory by now. He’s lost hours staring at them. So many times he’s caught himself watching as Bucky ran his tongue over them, watched as they turned ruby red and raw from Bucky digging his teeth into the tender flesh. Steve can’t look away right then and there, so up close when Bucky’s in his arms.

He can’t tear his gaze away and more importantly, he doesn’t want to. Steve knows what he wants and what he wants is… Bucky.

Steve leans forward again and gently kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth. It’s a short press of his lips to Bucky’s skin but he stays close and when Steve tilts his head, his lips shift to hover over Bucky’s own lips. They’re less than inches apart and all it would take would be the slightest purses of Steve’s lips that would close the almost non-existent space between them.

Steve does just that.

He moves forward until his lips press against Bucky’s. The contact is gentle-- so,  _ so  _ extremely gentle-- but his vision goes white at the feeling. His eyes glide shut so that he can savor the sensations that shoot throughout his body, feeling like all of his nerves have been shot to hell and back and light him on fire. It’s a good fire, of course. One that he wants to cover him whole and burn him to a crisp of ash.

It’s the most sinful pleasure that Steve has ever experienced. It gets even better when Bucky’s lips move, nothing more than a sleepy twitch, but the sensation of his lips gliding against Steve’s is all it takes for Steve to whimper. He does it quietly but he’s never heard a sound such as that leave his mouth.

Steve pulls back before any more sounds leave his throat. Bucky isn’t drugged and he could easily be awaken at any sound or movement and the last thing Steve could deal with is having Bucky pull away from him after a moment like that.

He doesn’t let go though. He wouldn’t dare let go after that. Instead, Steve wraps his arms back around Bucky’s torso and pulls the brunet against his chest. The movement jostles Bucky and a few sleepy mumbles tumble out of Bucky’s mouth. Steve stills instantly, thinking that maybe he fucked up, but soon enough, Bucky settles back down against Steve’s chest.

Steve grins like a fool when Bucky burrows into his neck, his own hand reaching out and touching against Steve’s forearm. It may not be a kiss, but it lights Steve up just the same.

His Bucky, his drug.


	9. Bluebird Blues

September 16, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

Steve walks the perimeter of the fence, looking up at how high it stands in the air. From his angle on the ground, it looks like the stone wall stretches endlessly into the sky, with the trees and sun towering above. Even with his arm outstretched above his head, he can’t reach the top, and if he were to pull up a chair, he still wouldn’t be anywhere close.  

It’s perfect. It’s just how he wanted it.

He turns to look over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s sitting at the table beneath the canopy, the dark grey curtains flapping gently in the autumn breeze. The younger man’s legs are pulled up to his chest as his fingers play with the condensation of his glass of iced sweet tea. Bucky may be fiddling about, but his grey gaze is sharp as he watches Steve finish up his inspection of the fence before making his way toward the table.

“It looks good, right?” he asks once he approaches. Steve sits down in the seat across from the brunet and let’s his hands trail over the top of the table. It’s still all so brand new and honestly, Steve loves it. He can’t believe that he hadn’t decided upon giving the backyard a makeover years ago. Then again, it’s not like he envisioned himself outside while at home. Not until Bucky came into the picture. Not until Bucky  _ became  _ the picture.

Bucky nods, still silent as he draws his finger through the droplets that have clustered along the outside of his glass. It’s technically fall, but the summer heat can still be at a high during the afternoons, enough to make Steve bring out an entire iced pitcher of fluids so that neither he or Bucky can go dehydrated.  

Steve raises up his own cup to his lips, taking a drink before continuing on. “I’ll take the locks off the back door so that you can come out here whenever you want. But I’ll also need to put up some cameras just to be precautious.”

Bucky looks at him in confusion, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Cameras for what? Nothing is going to get over that fence, Steve, myself included.”

“I just want to be able to see you, Buck, even when you’re outside,” Steve frowns. Surely Bucky understands by now, after all this time. Steve can’t make it anymore obvious just how dedicated he is to the younger man, how he has literally done everything he could for Bucky and Bucky only. He made their house safe. He made their backyard safe. He made  _ Bucky  _ safe. How much more could he do to show his love for Bucky that would allow the younger man to physically see and feel it?

Steve lowers his gaze, staring at his own glass and tracing the falling droplets with his eyes. “Can you really hold that against me?” he asks, quietly.

One minute of silence passes, then two, and neither of them say a thing. The quiet makes Steve focus on the birds in the distance, how he can hear them in the trees, living their simple little lives. Steve turns his head to the side and peaks up at one of the tall Sycamore trees that he put a birdhouse in. The small red and white house hangs from one of the limbs and even though it’s only been up for three days, Steve can spot the two birds that have taken residence in it. They’re eastern bluebirds; a female that rarely leaves from the perch and a male with bright blue plumage that leaves every few hours and comes back with twigs in its beak, never gone for too long.

Bucky gives out a soft sigh and Steve’s gaze finds its way back onto the brunet. “I can hold a lot of things against you, Steve, but this…” Bucky shrugs, dropping his gaze. “I expect it of you.”

Steve leans forward slightly, never taking his eyes off of the brunet. “Is that a good or bad thing?”

Again, Bucky shrugs. “It’s a ‘I know you already’ thing.”

“That really doesn’t answer the question though,” Steve points out. Bucky may have said the words casually, like they were simple, but hearing Bucky admit that he’s figured out who Steve is-- something that no one else has ever done before-- makes Steve’s grip tighten around his glass, his pulse spiking.

Bucky looks up at him. There’s something in Bucky’s eyes that Steve finds enticing, something that he wants to consume. Steve doesn’t look away as Bucky pulls his arms towards himself, resting them on top of his knees and using one of his hands to prop up his head. He’s shoots Steve a fake look of innocence, raising his dark brows. “Doesn’t it though?”

Steve keeps staring. Oddly enough, Bucky doesn’t look away either and somehow, they have a staring contest right then and there, neither breaking from each other. But then, when it becomes too much and Steve’s eyes start to burn, he blinks. “I guess it does,” he finally answers, grinning at the brunet.

He reaches down and picks up his glass again, bringing it to his lips. He doesn’t say anything and Bucky doesn’t either, but when Steve takes in Bucky’s features, he would swear that Bucky wanted to smile too, his pink lips twitching.

* * *

September 25, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Usually Bucky doesn’t get bored. Which, is strange considering he either rotates from watching tv, reading, or playing some random game on Steve’s tablet. There’s even a thousand piece puzzle that sits laid out on the coffee table with only the edges and about one sixths of the way completed. Now, however, he doesn’t want to do any of it and while he waits for Steve to get home from work, he feels like he’s seconds away from pulling his hair out. Or maybe smashing all the glassware again. It’s a toss-up at this point, really. 

He doesn’t smash the plates because that would just be immature and Steve would just bring home a brand new set tomorrow. There’s just no point, so instead, Bucky pads his way over to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. It’s either that or those bottled kale smoothies that Steve keeps on constant supply and demand and Bucky would be  _ damned  _ if he drinks one of those. Just looking at it makes him want to run for the nearest toilet and puke his goddamn brains out. He has no clue how Steve downs them like their god’s greatest creation.

Bucky is quick to close the refrigerator and just as he turns to go back to the living room, he catches sight of the calender and pauses. He hadn’t marked out the day in the morning so he reaches out for the black marker and scratches the day out with one quick motion of his wrist. It’s routine so he doesn’t think much about it, he just recaps the marker, sets it back in its place, and moves to turn on his heel, water bottle clutched in his hand, when he pauses. It takes him a second and he stares hard at the floor until it finally hits him.

Bucky looks back over his shoulder and squints at the calender just to make sure he read the date right. And yep, he did. Bucky’s brows raise onto his forehead when he realizes just how far in September it really is.

_ Five  _ days until October. Then  _ thirty  _ days in November, and with the end of November comes December and  _ shit _ .

How has the time gone by so fast? He swears that it feels like he’s only been missing from the rest of the world for a few weeks at tops, not fucking months. But nope, December is just over two months away and he gets instant anxiety just thinking about the amount of emails and phone calls that Pierce has probably sent him, not to mention the amount of times he has more than likely contacted Becca or his mom. Which makes everything so much  _ worse  _ because Steve has his phone and there’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind that Steve is likely reading every single thing that comes through Bucky’s phone. Bucky can only wonder what Steve has been replying because Bucky knows Pierce and knows that the older man hasn’t let a day go by without sending him a reminder to finish his book.

And double shit. His fucking book. The book that he hasn’t touched since the day Steve took him out of his damn apartment. So many months and weeks and hours wasted where Bucky did not a goddamn thing when he could have been working on his book instead.

It may seem a bit far fetched to even  _ think  _ about his book but he promised it already-- to his family, his friends, his publisher…  _ himself _ . It’s his life work and to think that it may never get done… No, it  _ will  _ get done. One way or another. 

For the next two hours, he’s a ball of energy as he bounces on his feet waiting for Steve to waltz in through the door. And when the front door finally opens and the blond emerges, Bucky isn’t blind to the way Steve quickly closes the door behind him, almost feverishly so. Then again, considering Steve has probably been watching him pace around the kitchen for the past few hours, the man had more than likely expected Bucky to try and pounce again.

But no, instead of pouncing for escape, Bucky pounces for another reason entirely. No sooner than Steve puts his keys and wallet onto the counter, Bucky blurts out, “I’m a writer.”

Steve smiles at him before shrugging off his suit jacket and resting it on the back of one of the dining chairs. “I know, Buck. I’ve read your books, remember?”

Bucky nods frantically, not moving as Steve approaches him. He’s a bit more preoccupied than worrying about Steve getting too close. “Well, yeah, but I-- I’m not done. I have a book due to come out in December. I need to finish it and I’m more than certain that my phone has gotten calls from my publisher, Steve.”

Steve stops less than a step away from him, flooding Bucky’s senses. He smells good like always, looks good to, and Bucky flicks his gaze up and down Steve’s body quickly, taking in the sight. Steve is dressed professionally, with dark navy pants and a jacket, and his blond hair is combed back, his beard trimmed perfectly. More than once Bucky has wondered just what exactly Steve does for a living. Whatever it is, it must be good because the amount of money that Steve dropped on the backyard without batting an eye had raised Bucky’s suspicions. And considering the hours Steve works, how Steve dresses, it has to be something professional. Bucky just doesn’t know. Steve’s never told him, and Bucky’s never asked.

“I take it your publisher is Pierce?” Steve asks like he doesn’t already know. Bucky rapidly looks back up to Steve’s face, refraining from rolling his eyes at such a dumb question. He doesn’t bother answering either.

“I need to finish it, Steve,” he repeats, adding a bit more urgency in his tone. He crosses his arms over his chest too, knowing he probably looks like a petulant child but not really caring.

Steve gives him a look like he’s confused and reaches his hands out to gently grab Bucky’s upper arms. “Then finish it,” Steve replies back. Bucky tries hard not focus on the soothing little patterns that Steve’s fingers rub into his skin, but with Steve being so close, it’s practically impossible. “There’s a notebook around here somewhere.”

Bucky blinks back dumbly because  _ what _ ? A fucking notebook? Did Bucky somehow get transported into the dark ages?

“I do my writings on my laptop,” Bucky informs him matter of factly. He watches as Steve’s face goes tight, how his jaw clenches when he pulls back away, letting his hands drop back down to his sides. Steve turns away and starts walking toward the stairs, his fingers beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt as he leaves Bucky trailing after him in desperation. It takes every ounce of willpower that Bucky has not to reach out and grab Steve, and force him to stay put. “I-I have deadlines that I need to meet,” he continues on, shadowing directly behind Steve as they ascend the steps. “You know that Pierce has tried to contact me and you can return emails all you want, but when December comes and goes, and I don’t turn in my final copy, Pierce is going to do everything in his power to find my ass, not caring who or what gets in his way, Steve. I’m on a contract.”

They’ve reached the bedroom by the time he stops talking and all Bucky can do is hesitate in the doorway as Steve slips the tie from his neck and throws it onto the bed, before reaching down and starting to fumble with his belt. It’s Steve’s normal routine after work; he comes home and greets Bucky before he glides up the stairs and changes into more comfortable clothing. But  _ never  _ has Bucky ever followed after him.

Looking at Steve now, however, standing in the middle of the bedroom with his shirt completely unbuttoned and his pants unzipped, Bucky has difficulty concentrating on why he even followed Steve up the stairs to begin with. Because all Bucky can see is Steve’s golden skin and Steve’s taut muscles and the faint hair that travels from Steve’s belly button down beneath the elastic waistband of his briefs -- and Bucky forgets how to fucking breathe until he blinks hard and forces his attention to focus over Steve’s shoulder instead.

But Steve is looking at him full force and Bucky can  _ feel  _ it.

“You need your laptop to write?” Steve asks, one of his brows raised and a look on his face like he’s one second away from calling bullshit. “Seems a bit drastic, no? Writers, like yourself, should be able to use anything they can.”

Bucky huffs, chancing a look back at Steve’s face and Steve’s face only, making sure his gaze doesn’t dip below the blond’s chin. “It’s a faster method than pen and pencil and a  _ huge  _ improvement from ink and feather. More modern, y’know?” his voice drips with sarcasm.

Steve’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t linger long, instead, he shucks off his shirt and tosses it onto the bed.  _ Dammit _ , Bucky screams to himself. He has to bite hard into his cheek to keep his thoughts from venturing into dangerous, unwelcomed territory. But… he’s not blind, far from it, and taking in Steve’s half naked body feels as if he should be covering his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s ever seen Steve shirtless and it probably won’t be the last, but it’s the first time that Bucky has ever allowed himself to  _ look _ . And fuck does Bucky look.

It’s a blessing that Steve isn’t looking in his direction any longer, going to the dresser to place his watch on top. He’s nodding his head like he’s agreeing with what Bucky had said but Steve’s lips are pressed tightly together and Bucky can practically hear the internal cogs turning within Steve’s head.

“So what’s your plan?” Steve speaks out, his voice rough as he faces Bucky again. And  _ woah _ , Bucky hasn’t heard that hard tone before, not from Steve. It sends a shiver down his spine, makes his throat clench up. He refuses to take a step backward, but the need to run and get away is so fucking strong. It scares the living hell out of him. “You’re gonna write an S.O.S in your chapter submissions?”

Bucky’s brows furrow. When he had said he needed to finish his book, he had meant it. The thought of putting some type of help message hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now that Steve mentions it, it would be easy to do.

“And what? You think I’m going to give you the wifi password so that you can call the cops or-- or someone that you think can take you away?” Steve scoffs, shaking his head as he capture’s Bucky’s gaze. “Is that what this is? Another attempt at getting away?”

Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes. “As tempting as that is, I actually do have a job that needs to be done, Steve. There are people depending on me to get it finished and I’m not going to  _ not  _ do it.”

He’s met with silence. Heavy silence as Steve visibly mulls over what Bucky had said. For a few seconds, Bucky thinks that Steve isn’t going to say anything at all and just when he thinks that maybe he should leave and let Steve finished getting dressed, the tension in the blonde’s shoulders dissipates

“What if... “ Steve sighs heavily, stepping close again. His blue eyes are looking down into Bucky’s so softly that it makes Bucky’s resolve waver, makes him almost forget the dynamic that is between them. Steve is half naked still and he’s so close that Bucky can feel his warmth tickling against his arms. Bucky stares at Steve, transfixed as the blond talks. “What if you didn’t have to do the job? What if you didn’t have people depending on you? Buck… what if you depended on me instead? I can do it, easily-- I  _ have  _ been doing it.”

Bucky keeps looking into Steve’s eyes and when the words finally sink in, Steve’s presence mixed in with Steve’s voice, Bucky actually begins to think about it. Because what if he didn’t need to finish the book? If he didn’t, Pierce would be out of the picture. No more pulling all nighters typing away, no more re-editing chapters for the hundredth time, no more frowning at his computer screen hoping the words will all just come to him. And Steve… Steve  _ has  _ been providing for him. Even when Bucky fought tooth and nail, when he screamed and broke things, Steve always took care of him in the end, never turning violent even when he probably should have.

But if Bucky  _ were  _ to go along with Steve’s words, what would his mom and sister think? They were excited for the ending of the trilogy just as much as the rest of the fans were. Bucky was excited thinking about them all getting the last book, all the characters and the plot getting their proper endings. But the words that Steve is saying… they’re awfully… coupley. Dependency is something that lovers talk about in their domestic bliss, when they’re discussing future plans of who stays home and takes care of the house and kids while the other partner works and financially supplies. What him and Steve have is far from a relationship and is nowhere near them being a couple, or ever being one. Steve’s words however… they make Bucky think that perhaps they are closer towards a relationship than he actually thought. Is that what they will have eventually?  _ Holy fuck _ , is that what they are becoming?

No.  _ No, no, no. _

Bucky trains his eyes over Steve’s shoulder again, focusing on one of bedposts. The left one at the top of bed; the one that Bucky’s left wrists had been attached to not that long ago. He looks at that bedpost and remembers the screaming he did for someone to help him, he remembers the needles that Steve sunk into his skin. But Bucky also remembers when he wakes up with Steve plastered to his back or him sleeping on Steve’s chest, basking in Steve’s endless supply of warmth, and he remembers when Steve gave him his clothes back, how happy it had made him to have his own possessions back.

He remembers it all; the good and the bad, the past and the present.

Bucky has to clear his throats to find his voice again. “I like what I do,” he whispers, letting his gaze trickle back up to Steve. “I… appreciate your offer but I want to finish the book. It’s the last of the series and then… then it’s over.”

One of Steve’s large hands slowly reaches out to cup against the right side of Bucky’s face. The blond watches Bucky carefully, moving slow as if not to scare him or as if waiting for Bucky to say no, but when Bucky doesn’t pull away, Steve’s palm flattens against his cheek.

“If I give you your laptop, you won’t have access to the internet. All you’ll have is whatever program you type on and…” Steve’s other hand comes up and presses against the other side of Bucky’s face, his blue gaze searching. “I’m not stupid, Buck. I’ll read every word you type before I let you email it to your publisher.”

Bucky tries to shake his head but Steve’s hands hold him still. “I wasn’t--”

“Bucky,” Steve cuts him off. Bucky’s breath stills as Steve takes yet another step forward, so close that Bucky’s shirt brushes against Steve’s skin. “I’ll work with you but you have to work with me in return. That means no lying, okay?”

Instead of arguing that he wasn’t lying and that all he wants is to finish his book, Bucky nods his head in silent agreement. For some odd reason, he feels like he agrees to more than he actually realizes.

Steve’s grin is all the confirmation that Bucky needs.

* * *

The next morning, Bucky wakes up to the gentle feeling of Steve brushing the hair out of his face. When he rubs at his eyes sleepily, yawning, he’s more than aware that Steve’s fingers keep moving in his hair. It feels good, making him feel like he should turn back into the pillows and sleep for a few more hours but then Steve shifts and suddenly, Bucky smells the glorious fumes of freshly brewed coffee.

He cracks his eyes open, blinking at the sunlight trickling in through the windows, and looks up to see Steve smiling down at him, the cup of coffee in his hand being wafted towards Bucky.

Bucky sits up, letting his back press against the headboard as he reaches to take the cup from Steve’s hand. He breathes in the fumes as he eyes Steve at his side, seeing Steve all dressed up and groomed for work.

“Breakfast is on the table,” Steve says just as he lowers himself down onto the edge of the bed. His gaze is trained on Bucky like always, watching his every move, but instead of sitting there with his hands in his lap, Steve reaches out and pats Bucky’s knee, letting his hand sit there instead. “And I think you will like to hear that your laptop is too.”

Bucky’s gaze finds Steve instantly, his surprise more than likely showing. He doesn’t know what to say or do, even though if Steve were anyone else he knows that he would have flung his arms around Steve’s neck and given him the biggest, tightest hug that he could. Instead, he bites at his lips as a smile threatens to emerge and he hides behind the cup to block Steve’s view.

But Steve is being considerate and there’s no real reason that the blond should have given Bucky access to his laptop again, yet Steve had obliged. And Bucky needs to show his appreciation because he’s grateful, more than he could possibly describe.

“Thank you, Steve,” he says, pulling his coffee cup down a fraction of an inch so that Steve can hear him clearly. Steve’s smile stretches and soon, he bids Bucky goodbye, promising that he’ll be home soon.

* * *

October 14, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

“How come I haven’t met ya boy yet?” Sam asks. 

They’re sitting in the hospital cafeteria, facing one another, and even though Steve usually locks himself away in his office, by himself, he had accepted Sam’s lunch invitation. Sam is making his way through a burrito as Steve keeps one eye trained on the screen of his phone and one eye on his own food, switching between the two with ease. If Sam has a problem with Steve’s distractedness, he doesn’t say anything. Then again, Sam is probably more than aware that the only reason why Steve left his office is because he has his phone.

“My boy?” Steve raises a questioning brow, a humorous grin on his face. He knows who Sam is making a reference towards, but hearing Bucky termed something so juvenile is pretty damn hilarious. Then again, the way Bucky acts sometimes, it isn’t that much of a far fetch. The younger man can pout like a damn near infant when he wants to.

Just thinking about Bucky makes Steve’s gaze trickle back to his phone, watching through his screen as Bucky sits at the kitchen table typing away on his laptop. It’s been just over two weeks since Steve gave the computer to him, and since then, Bucky has been working on his book like a madman. While Steve is at work, Bucky works too; when Steve comes home from work, Bucky closes the laptop and doesn’t bother going back to it until Steve leaves in the morning again. It’s refreshing, really. Steve had been more than worried about Bucky becoming devoured by his ambition with the book and it’s a good thing Bucky gives Steve his attention too, because Steve doesn’t know how he would have reacted if Bucky kept working once he got home. He might have just yanked the device away and shoved it back into the safe in the closet, Bucky’s begging be damned.  

Steve hadn’t  _ had  _ to give Bucky his laptop back. It was a compromise between them, something that all healthy relationships have, so naturally Steve had been ready to comply. He doesn’t regret it either, and doubts he ever will unless the laptop starts to tear into their time together. Other than that, however, Steve’s happy to see Bucky fulfilling his dream.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “You’re still all chirpy so I figure that means you’re still with Bucky, right? Or did I totally miss something?”

Steve shakes his head,  “No, no, we’re still… he’s still with me.”

Sam grins in return. “It’s been like what, three, four months?”

Looking across the table, Steve levels Sam with an even look, trying to figure out the direction Sam is coming from. Sam wants to talk about Bucky, again? There’s an unsettling tingle that trickles into Steve’s blood stream, making him feel like he wants to fight, something primal that sets him on edge.

The problem is that Sam always wants to talk about Bucky. If Steve didn’t know any better, and if he didn’t know how strong Sam and Riley’s relationship is, he would be concerned about an ulterior motive behind his colleague's actions. Because who wants to talk about someone else’s… person? Sam has no business regarding Bucky. None, whatsoever.

Steve bites back his anger, swallowing thickly instead. “I’m not sure,” he lies.

Sam snorts and instantly Steve’s gaze pins onto him, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the humor on Sam’s face. “Bullshit, Steve. You’re the type of guy who probably knows the exact time you met Bucky. You probably celebrate monthly anniversaries of the day you two met. The first time the two of you touched. The first time you had a damn phone call. You’re the sappy type of guy to do all that romantic stuff,” Sam grins out.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing,” Steve mutters, darting another glance at his phone. Bucky is still typing away, still sitting at the kitchen table-- still in a place where Steve can see him.

Sam shrugs, taking a drink of his soda before he leans back into his chair. “It’s both, I guess. Depends on how Bucky feels about it. Which is  _ why  _ I need to meet him. Get a feel for who he is.”

Steve frowns and turns his attention to his food, poking aimlessly at the green salad in front of him. He’s more than aware that Sam is still looking at him but what exactly is he supposed to say back? Lie and say that Bucky wants to meet Sam too? Steve has never mentioned any other relationships, or lack of, in front of Bucky because he wants Bucky to know that he’s the only one that is important in Steve’s life. Sam is nothing in comparison to what Bucky is to Steve, doesn’t even come close.

“I’m not sure,” Steve says back. “He’s a busy guy. He works a lot. Travels to see his family too; they live in Indiana so....”

Sam doesn’t buy it though. Any person with a brain cell wouldn’t. “He obviously has enough time for you every morning and night so I think he can reserve one dinner for someone that isn’t just the two of you by yourself. We can do it any time this week.”

Of course Sam is insistent. He always has been. When him and Riley had gotten married, he chased Steve down for two entire weeks until Steve gave his RSVP. It really isn’t a surprise that Sam continues to push, acting like the fly that keeps buzzing in Steve’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Steve answers, stabbing his fork into the leaves with more force than necessary. “I don’t wanna scare him off or anything.”

Sam shakes his head, putting his elbows onto the table and leaning forward. “Steve, you like him don’t you?”

Steve scoffs. Understatement of the goddamn year. If only Sam really knew just how gone Steve was for the brunet back at home, if Sam knew all of what Steve had done for Bucky--  _ to  _ Bucky. “Just a bit,” he answers.

“And Bucky likes you right?”

Steve stills as the words seep in, but he thinks about it, just as he thinks about it every night. He thinks about the times in the beginning when Bucky had screamed and fought, and he thinks about how Bucky hasn’t done either of those in so  _ so  _ long. That has to mean something. Even if Bucky would never acknowledge it verbally, the younger man’s actions speak louder than his lack of words. 

“I think so,” he whispers back, his voice so low and quiet that Sam has to inch even further across the table to hear.

Sam rolls his eyes. “If Bucky can deal with your sorry ass for this long, then I can guarantee he’s more than head over heels for you. Just like you are for him. But I still wanna meet him so let’s do a double date.”

_ When hell freezes over _ , is what Steve wants to say. But he can’t and the words fizzle in his throat. He still has to say something though, so he makes it up right then on the spot. “I’ll ask him about it.” Steve smiles at Sam, and Sam smiles back, not paying the slightest attention to how tight Steve’s grip is around his fork, how his knuckles have turned pale white.

Steve stabs at his salad again, realizing that he’s suddenly lost his appetite.

* * *

Later that afternoon, they’re both sitting at the kitchen table, swapping small conversations  about their day, when Steve decides to bring up Sam. When he does, Steve watches Bucky carefully as the brunet suddenly stills, going quiet like the drop of a dime.

Steve feels like he may have made a mistake mentioning Sam because Bucky somehow pulls away without actually leaning back. It’s like emotionally Bucky backs away, his gaze going distant even when Steve desperately tries to find it.

He fidgets nervously as he waits in the silence; his legs bounce up and down, his fingers twitching along any surface they find. It feels like hours until Bucky speaks.

“Your friend… he knows about me?” Bucky asked slowly, his gaze trained on the top of the table like he’s scared to look up.  

There’s something in Bucky’s tone that makes the hairs rise on Steve’s arms, like he knows that there’s a storm brewing in the younger man. Steve doesn’t nod until Bucky glances up and when he does, there’s a conflicted emotion that flickers across the brunet’s face. It makes Steve’s jaw clench, getting himself ready for the inevitable. For what he knows is rapidly approaching.

“W-what was Sam saying?”

“He said he wants to meet you. Even tried to get me to agree to a double date,” Steve says with a strained laugh. He’s trying to make light of the situation but his words ring between them, echoing in the silence. Then, Bucky physically leans away.

“So, what?” Bucky swallows and Steve watches the movement of the muscles in his neck, transfixed like always. “He’s coming over?”

Steve scrunches his face, shaking his head rapidly. “No.”

“Why not? If he wants to meet me so badly, then let him, Steve.”

“You’re kidding right? You and I both know that the second he walks through that door, you’re gonna ruin all of this.”

“So you’re saying he doesn’t know?”

Steve pauses, looking toward the brunet like he’s grown a another head. Had Bucky thought… Oh. Is that why Bucky had gotten upset? Bucky had thought Steve had told Sam about the things he had done, how he had committed such a horror against the younger man even though his intentions were so,  _ so  _ good. Steve would never tell another fucking soul.

“Believe it or not, Buck, I don’t go around telling people my personal business,” he mumbles

Anger flashed across Bucky’s face. “And you consider me  _ your  _ personal business? Not, you know, an actual human being that has no connection to you besides the fact you took me from my own apartment and locked me up in this house, Steve?”

Steve sighs heavily and crosses his arms across his chest, leveling a look towards the brunet. “Bucky can you not start. I’m just trying to talk to you without you throwing a fit. Just give me a break, please? I’m trying to make this good.”

Bucky stares at him, his mouth hanging open slightly as if he’s in shock. There’s a moment between them that neither move; Steve’s not even sure either of them take a breath. But then, Bucky pushes his plate away. LIke a child. And all Steve can do is stare as the glass plate goes sliding across the table.

“ _ This-- _ ,” Bucky hisses, using his hand to signal the space between them “--will never be good. I think  _ you  _ should learn that pretty fucking quickly Steve.” Before he gives Steve the chance to say or do anything, Bucky scoots his chair back, and forcefully, the legs screech against the hardwood floor. He’s gone a second later and it leaves Steve swallowing down the emotions that have lodged themselves in his throat.  

* * *

October 16, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

Steve brings home a movie hoping that it will relieve some of the tension between them. It’s a long shot, just like every day has been since Steve mentioned what Sam had said, but Bucky had mentioned the movie a few times and Steve has finally picked it up, thinking that maybe it can be a truce of some sorts. 

He doesn’t touch the thermostat and he actually pulls a spare blanket from the closet in the hall so that Bucky won’t feel pressured into sharing like usual. They have movie nights about four times a week, and there’s only been a few times where him and Bucky laid together on the same sectional piece, but usually they sit near one another, letting their thighs and knees touch. Tonight, however, Bucky sits as far from Steve that he can. The brunet has his body wrapped in the spare blanket Steve brought in and at his sides, he’s stacked up the pillows that Steve bought a few weeks back, towering so high that Steve can only see the top of Bucky’s head when he sits down on the couch against the wall with windows.

Steve gets the message loud and clear.

If Bucky needs his space, Steve is more than willing to let the brunet simmer down. Afterall, Steve does have the time for it.

The movie is a funny one and Bucky laughs more than once at certain scenes that play out. Steve laughs too, and when his laugh blends in with Bucky’s, he figures it’s only a matter of time until things go back to normal. If things were really that bad, they would be having a  _ very  _ different night.

It’s the little things that Steve pays attention to. Then again, perhaps they aren’t so little after all.

* * *

October 19, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

It’s a Saturday, which means that Steve is home  _ all day long. _

Bucky sits in the living room with his laptop on his lap and tries not to pay attention as Steve goes through his daily routine of cleaning: scrubbing the counters, mopping the floors, doing laundry, then re-scrubbing the counters, re-mopping the floors, and folding the clothes when they come out fresh and warm.

So once Steve stops moving around, Bucky notices almost immediately. He picks his gaze up from his computer screen and flicks his attention towards the kitchen where it’s turned silent. Bucky bites into his cheeks waiting for Steve to emerge, but as the quiet continues to drag on, he frowns.

Steve wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, and Bucky hadn’t heard the door open and close, but Bucky supposes it could still be possible that Steve just slipped out. It makes him almost panic. He can feel his heart start to pound at the thought of Steve just  _ leaving _ , and while he stares blankly at his screen, debating whether or not he should just go and check for fuck’s sake, he exhales a shaky breath of relief when he hears Steve’s footsteps start up again.

He goes back to typing and pretends not to notice when Steve walks into the room. But after two steps forward, then three, then four, Bucky has no choice but to look up as Steve approaches, his fingers stilling on the keyboard.

As Steve stops in front of him, Bucky takes the blond in. He can see the tightness in Steve’s shoulders, can see the apprehension bleed into his blue eyes. Bucky can only wonder if he’s beginning to notice the details about Steve, the things that no one else sees, or the things that Steve doesn’t allow to be seen. Which would be hard to hide, really. There’s been a heaviness hanging around Steve like a cloud, thick enough that Bucky can feel it all throughout the day, always nagging at him that it’s _ his fault. _

Steve’s usual bright, gentle demeanor has been smothered for the past few days, making Bucky squeam in discomfort. He’s gotten used to the things Steve does; the soft touches when they’re close, how Steve talks to him while he meal preps, how Steve cards his fingers through Bucky’s hair in the mornings when he thinks that Bucky isn’t fully awake yet, or even when they sit side by side on the couch and binge watch tv shows, swapping their opinions back and forth like they’ve known each other for years.

But ever since their… dispute… Steve has taken all of himself away, leaving Bucky fumbling for the normalcy that he’s gotten used to, what he’s learned to depend on. It makes him feel itchy, makes him ache for what he’s lost, but Bucky has been stubborn since the day he entered the world and he’s not going to stop any time soon, even when his body and brain screams for him to just  _ stop-stop-stop _ . 

Steve clears his throat softly and Bucky’s gaze finds his, instantly, like a magnetic force. Bucky has to regain his train of thought, blinking out of the daze he had fallen into, and finally notices the pen and paper in Steve’s hand. He stares at them in question until Steve reaches his arm out, extending the objects towards Bucky.

Bucky’s brows furrow in confusion, his gaze darting up to Steve’s knowing he’ll get the answers soon enough. The blond always gives him what he needs, right? Why would this be any different?

It isn’t.

Steve takes a deep breath and wrings his hands together in front of him, looking like a nervous school boy trying to find friends on a playground and not the big, strongman that he really is.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday so I’ll get groceries in the morning,” Steve says, although Bucky already knows that. It’s part of their routine. They follow it every week.

But Steve handing him a pencil and piece of paper most certainly isn’t.

Bucky doesn’t move. His hand stays lifted up, holding the objects Steve gave him like they’re the strangest things he’s ever seen. He keeps looking at Steve, waiting for the blond to tell him just exactly what he’s supposed to do with them.

“I was just thinking… there’s probably foods or anything that you want and-- and I want you to be able to choose what you want me to get. For you,” Steve stutters out. All Bucky can do is stare as Steve fumbles with his words, looking more and more like that confused schoolboy that Bucky had envisioned him as. It makes Steve seem more human, less like the monster he really is.

Seeing Steve like that makes Bucky want to pull him close and make it all better.

Bucky glances down at the objects in his hand.

“Anything?” he asks, his voice just a faint breath more than anything.

Steve nods his head.

Bucky thinks long and hard; he tries to remember what he enjoyed, what he always bought every time he went to the grocery store. He knows the junk food that he usually purchased isn’t something that Steve would be happy about. The blond would probably have a damn near heart attack if he saw the amount of sugar that was in those marshmallow cereals that Bucky snacked on, or even in the tubs of chocolate chunk ice cream he would down whenever he watched tv.

“Anything anything?” Bucky repeats, flicking his gaze up to Steve to gauge his reaction. Part of him expects Steve to go back on his words, to reach out and snatch the paper and pen right out from his hands. But Steve doesn’t. He just nods his head once again.

“Yes, Buck. Anything anything,” Steve huffs, playfully rolling his eyes.

Huh, now that’s something-- a very  _ interesting  _ something. Bucky’s eyes narrow at the blond, taking in the way Steve has suddenly shifted before his very eyes. Gone is that closed off expression, Steve’s hesitance, and now, there  _ Steve  _ is again. The real Steve with the warm blue eyes and the smile playing at his lips.

Bucky feels something tingle down his spine seeing Steve like that again. Something strong and-- and  _ enjoyable _ . There’s also the strong urge to be a pain in the ass too, so Bucky finds the middle ground. Naturally.

“Like the password to the door?” Bucky shoots back. He’s being testy and although he knows he shouldn’t, and that the ground between the two of them is still shaky, he can’t help but push his luck.

He waits on edge, fingers and toes curling in suspense, until Steve snorts. “Yeah, nice try.”

Bucky writes the words down anyways.  There’s an amused smile on his face as he does so, but he lowers his head and lets his hair fall over his face so that Steve can’t see.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up! In the next few chapters, the violence level is going to increase.


	10. Streams and Confetti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, vacation is over so that's what prolonged the update, so super sorry everyone! To make up for that, I added a bigger chapter and there were parts that were kinda hard to write considering I have next to zero experience writing violence/action scenes so I hope it won't be terrible. 
> 
> Also! You guys are so amazing and I appreciate all of the feedback and kudos that you all leave. It all warms my heart soooo much and it seriously makes my day when I get the notifications. Love and appreciate each and every single one of you. Enjoy!

November 8, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

It’s warm in the house. 

More importantly though, it’s comfortable.

Because despite having on a pair of grey fuzzy socks that Steve gave him, and a pair of soft sweatpants and a long-sleeve sweatshirt, the weather outside is cold and wet enough that Bucky can actually feel it if he gets too close to the windows.

A cold front had come in earlier in the week and Steve had made a point in stocking up for the upcoming winter season, which ultimately resulted in the blond buying Bucky every article of clothing either coated in chenniel or fur or some thermal material that Steve was adamant about maintaining proper blood flow. At first Bucky wanted to complain and say how unnecessary all of that really was, that he didn’t really  _ need  _ it, but heck, the second he touched one of the fuzzy socks, he was a complete goner.

Steve must have taken note too, because coincidentally, the next day he came home from work he had an entire bag full of them and had grinned like a madman when he handed them over. Now they’re all stowed away in one of the drawer’s of the dresser than Steve has deemed the ‘soft pile’ and he hasn’t not worn a pair since Steve gave them to him.

He wants to blame the weather, or maybe even the socks themselves for being so damn cozy, but deep down, he knows he likes them so much because Steve had gifted them to him. Which, he knows that sounds crazy but the gifts were small, probably cheap too, yet still, the thought was there and there is no denying that there was affection behind Steve’s actions.

Then again, there’s always affection behind anything that Steve does. The amount of attention and thought that Steve puts into taking care of him isn’t something that Bucky can ignore. How can he when no one else has  _ ever  _ gone that far and beyond for him? All of Bucky’s past flings were  _ nothing  _ in regards to how Steve treats him… not considering the first month, obviously. So now that Bucky has the attention and affection, he almost doesn’t remember life without it.

He tries to remember what it was like to wake up in an empty bed, or how he had to go make all of his own food and coffee, or how no one really cared if he wasn’t feeling all that well, or if he felt lonely on more days than not. He tries to remember, truly he does, but it all feels so far away and so long ago that it seems like it’s from a different lifetime-- a lifetime that Bucky no longer recognizes.

A life without Steve.

When he tries to remember it all, he sees Steve instead because Steve is  _ there  _ now.

_ Steven Grant Rogers _ , to be exact. Born July 4th, 1982, making him thirty-three years old, ten years older than Bucky himself.

Bucky holds Steve’s driver’s license with his thumbs and index fingers, holding it up so that he can read every single little detail. He’s sitting on the floor in the living room, propping his elbows up on the coffee table as he inspects the small, hard plastic card. The news is on, talking more about the cold front and how it’s only going to get worse for the rest of the week, but Bucky hardly catches any words the weatherman actually says. Instead, he quietly hums along with the song that Steve has playing in the kitchen as he cooks up dinner. The song is something old, almost jazzy, and Bucky can’t help but bop his knee along with the rhythm as he continues to go through Steve’s wallet.

He doesn’t know why he snatched it up. One second he had been taking a steaming mug of tea from Steve, then the next, he saw the brown leather square and just didn’t think twice. He had plucked it off the counter knowing damn well Steve was watching and as he held it in his hand, waiting for Steve to snatch it back, the blond just rolled his eyes playfully and said ‘go ahead’.

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He had found his spot on the floor, made himself comfortable, and did just as Steve said.

He stares long and hard at Steve’s license, feeling some type of relief when he notes the address listed is still located in Brooklyn. He’s home, yet he isn’t. Not exactly, anyways.

He feels something else too when he sees Steve’s picture. The blond looks nice as always, with his slightly gelled hair combed back and his lips lifted upwards just slightly enough to make it look like he’s smiling but not actually doing so.

Bucky pulls his gaze away when he realizes that he’s been staring for a few minutes too long, and let’s Steve’s ID drop onto the table with a gentle tap. He moves to pick up the wallet and starts shuffling through the rest of the contents. There’s a coffee stamp card that doesn’t look used, a handful of different dollar bills that Bucky doesn’t care to go through, and a few debit cards that rest in the slots. There’s nothing enticing, no random condom or a picture of a loved one that Bucky could question about.  

It’s all so different than Bucky’s own wallet-- wherever it may be, if he even  _ has  _ a wallet anymore.

He’s just about ready to shove everything back into the wallet when he catches sight of a white card that was nestled in between the folds. Bucky’s fingers instantly pull it out and his brows furrow when it takes him a while to realize what he’s looking at.

It’s an ID badge. At the top it reads: Brooklyn Hospital Center, and at the bottom it has Steve’s name in bolded fine print, followed by two letters that make Bucky’s brows raise onto his forehead. Unlike the blond’s license, the name on the badge reads  _ Steven G. Rogers, M.D _ , and there in the middle is yet another picture of Steve, only this time he’s in a white coat with a button up and tie underneath that both peak through the lab jacket.

Somehow, it all makes sense.

“You’re a doctor?” he asks, loud enough so that Steve can hear him in the kitchen.

It takes only a second until the man enters the room, nodding his head as his gaze goes from his wallet on the coffee table then straight to Bucky.

“Figures,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve cocks his head but steps further into the room, right until his leg brushes against the coffee table and Bucky has to tip his head all the way back to look up at Steve as he says, “Why do you say that?”

Bucky leans back to press his spine into the base of the couch, letting his fingers continue to toy with the edges of Steve’s wallet as he brings it into his lap. “The medical equipment,” he points out,  remembering the IV machine and wondering who the hell just has one of those on hand, in their own house nonetheless. “Then the drugs. I’m pretty sure you can’t get that stuff on the streets, Steve.”

“You’d be surprised what people can come up with, Buck,” Steve huffs out a laugh as he sinks down into the couch, letting his leg press up against the side of Bucky’s body without hesitation.

“True,” he nods, but then narrows his eyes, “ _ but _ the ones you carry come in syringes with sealed caps, meaning you don’t reuse them.”

Steve’s own eyes narrow in return and there’s a playful grin on his lips. “So just because I happen to not reuse needles, that automatically makes me a doctor?”

Bucky twists his waist so that his elbow slides onto the cushion beside Steve, using it to prop up his head as he gazes at the blond. “ _ No _ ,” he drags out the word, “but it makes you seem more educated than some rando on the street.” Steve goes to open his mouth to say something back but Bucky continues on, “And really, all it takes is one look to see that you do something professional. Knowing that you’re a doctor,” Bucky shrugs his shoulders, “--just makes it all make sense.” He lets his other hand make a general sweep over Steve’s body without actually touching him, getting his message across.

Steve looks at him for a long moment, letting his hand drop down onto the cushion where Bucky’s own hand rests. For a split second, Bucky thinks that Steve is going to grab him, maybe let his long fingers trail against the soft, sensitive skin across Bucky’s wrist and forearm. Bucky holds his breath for reasons he can’t explain, waiting and watching Steve, watching those hands.

Steve doesn’t touch him though. He just slides his hand to where it’s mere millimeters from Bucky’s own, close enough that Bucky can feel his heat, getting a little taste that makes his skin erupt in goosebumps at the proximity. Then, Steve speaks, “I was always sick as a kid-- just a scrawny little thing with messed up lungs and a weak heart. I didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds until I turned fifteen.”

Bucky feels his mouth drop open at Steve’s admission. Because he can’t see it. He can’t associate this large muscled man with a small, vulnerable kid that makes Bucky’s heart clench in worry just thinking about it. He can't see Steve bone-thin, wheezing, and clutching at an inhaler as if his life depends on it. He can't see Steve holding a hand against his chest, right above his heart, his small face twisting in pain. He can’t envision any of it.

“In the winter, I would spend more time in a hospital than here at my own house, and sometimes it got really bad that I was in the ICU for days on end. My ma was always worrying about me and sometimes I can’t help but think--” Steve cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. There’s a look on his face that Bucky hasn’t seen before and it makes him ache somewhere deep inside, feeling his heart sinking down into his stomach. Steve’s face has fallen and his eyes have turned distant, seeing something that Bucky can’t. Whatever it is though, it isn’t something good. There’s so much sadness and grief that hangs in the air that it makes Bucky swallow hard, makes his hands twitch in Steve’s direction because he feels like he should do something-- anything to make Steve feel better.

His hands don’t get far though. He stops them before they actually touch the other man, and he drops them onto the cushion instead. It takes a few moments until he finds his voice, having to swallow the tightness away. “So is that why you became a doctor?”

Steve’s eyes find him again, and Bucky watches in silent fascination as his pupils dilate, the black swallowing the blue. “No,” Steve shakes his head. “I did it because of my mom.”

Steve’s mom. Somehow Bucky forgot to realize that Steve has a life away from this house, where he has loved ones and family members that care for him in ways that Bucky’s own relatives care for him. He wonders if Steve has brothers and sisters, and if he calls them on a daily basis. They mustn’t live in Brooklyn otherwise Steve would have visited them, because as far as Bucky knows, Steve only leaves the house to either get groceries or go to work. He tries to think of Steve’s parents-- of how they would react if they were to know the things that Steve has done-- or if they would find it unforgivable. Bucky wonders what they think of their darling boy and if they have any clue on the darkness that lingers beneath the kind eyes and the nice smiles.

He wonders if they would cover for Steve. Or if they would see nothing wrong with what Steve has done to him.

Bucky turns forward and drops the wallet back onto the coffee table, turning away from Steve. There’s so much he wants to say but he can’t quite find the words to do so.  He opts with the obvious instead.

“Your mom?” he asks, quietly. It’s gotten so silent in the room that he’s almost frightened to speak above a whisper.

Minutes pass where Steve doesn’t answer. Bucky expects him not to, considering Steve’s never mentioned his family before. But what Bucky  _ doesn’t  _ expect, is for Steve to slide off the couch and settle down on the floor right beside him. Their knees and thighs touch and Bucky’s gaze immediately shoots to the space. His eyes trail upwards, skimming up Steve’s torso until he reaches his face. Steve is already looking at him, his blue eyes gentle, and before Bucky can move or say anything, Steve breaks the silence.

“My mom had an aggressive stage of cancer. By the time they caught it… it was already too late,” he gently shakes his head, his eyes turning distant again. “She tried to fight it-- and she did for a while-- but we both knew that she wouldn’t be able to hold on forever. She managed for three years, longer than they expected, but... she passed before she could see me graduate college.”

Bucky keeps his gaze trained on Steve as the blond talks and if he thought he ached before, hearing the passing of Steve’s mom makes him actually want to cry. He envisions his own mom suffering and dying by something so cruel and it’s-- it’s just-- he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even Steve.

Especially Steve.

Bucky wants to say sorry. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be said, but Bucky shoves it away, refusing to say the words even when his heart aches to.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, finding his voice again. “A-are you okay?”

Steve has his head turned, looking at Bucky, and before the blond says anything, Steve lifts up his hand, palm up. Bucky stares at it for one heartbeat, then two, until he realizes what Steve is doing. The blond is trying to initiate contact, rather than force it, and before Bucky even realizes it, he’s lifting up his left hand and clasping it into the one Steve offered. Their palms press together and Bucky can only savor the warmth that Steve provides, feeling better than all the fuzzy socks in the world.

Steve’s thumb brushes the back of Bucky’s hand, rubbing back and forth and making Bucky’s lips part slightly at the sensation.

“I’m okay now,” Steve whispers to him. They’re close enough that Bucky feels Steve’s breath fan against his face, gently moving the long strands of his hair that curl against his jaw. “I was lonely for a long time but… I have you now, Buck. You make it all better.”

Bucky’s gaze trickles up to Steve’s, searching for something that he doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to begin to understand. Steve’s words ring in his ear but all Bucky can focus on is the endless repeat of  _ you make it all better. _

_ You make it all better. _

_ You make it all better. _

When Steve smiles down at him, Bucky sees those kind eyes and gentle lips and he feels-- he feels serene. Like he’s in a trance that he can’t shake-- a trance that he doesn’t  _ want  _ to shake.

Steve’s hand tightens around Bucky’s and as the blond rises to his feet, he carefully picks Bucky up too. “Let’s eat,” Steve says, nodding his head towards the kitchen. He doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand and instead of dragging him along, Bucky willingly follows Steve’s steps.

* * *

Later that night, Bucky is sitting with his back to the headboard, his knees pulled up to his chest as Steve walks into the bedroom. The main light is off but both of the lamps on the end tables are on and it fills the room with a gentle glow, giving Bucky enough sight to inspect Steve as he approaches. His blond hair is damp from his shower and even with his clothes on, Bucky can see the small droplets of water that have dripped onto Steve’s shirt, leaving dark splotches against the grey fabric.

There’s one stray droplet that slides down Steve’s neck and Bucky tracks its movements until it dips beneath the collar of his shirt.

Bucky blinks, taking a soothing breath, and lets his skull fall back onto the headboard as Steve approaches. Somehow Steve always manages to seem so much bigger than he actually is, taking up the room with his body and soul that it feels almost suffocating at times. Other times, like right now, it feels comforting, like Steve can protect him from everything and anything.

Steve walks directly to the bed and pulls back the thick array of blankets that cover the mattress and before the blond can say anything, Bucky’s mouth is opening. “Has my mom called?” he asks, hugging his legs even tighter to his chest as the blankets get tugged from under him. His question hangs in the air for a handful of seconds and he watches Steve expectantly, even though he feels like he already knows the answer.

Steve slides into the bed and pushes himself up onto the headboard, copying Bucky’s position, before he chooses to answer. “Yeah,” he says, quietly as if he doesn’t entirely want to talk. “She calls you pretty much on a daily basis, so does your sister.”

Bucky expected as much, but it still doesn’t take away from the painful lurch that he feels in his chest. He can picture his mom and sister sitting together back at home in Indiana, frowning down at the phone as it goes to his voicemail over and over. They must think the worse unless--

“What do you tell them?” he turns his head and looks toward Steve.

The blond is looking back but Bucky can see that sadness again in his blue eyes, like from earlier.

“I tell them enough. Your sister is more insistent but…” Steve takes a deep breath, sighing. “I never meant-- I didn’t mean to take you away from them. You have to understand that.”

Bucky frowns. “How can you say--”

“I forget, sometimes, that people have loved ones, y’know?” Steve interrupts him, letting his gaze shift away from Bucky. “I just… I forget. You’re lucky you still have people that care so much, especially people that are your family.”

“Lucky is a funny word to describe my life at the moment,” Bucky mumbles. He can’t find the will to pull his attention away from Steve, but his fingers toy with the fabric of the sheets that Steve has pulled up, twisting the blanket it in his hands.

“Well, still... “ Steve continues, finally shifting to face Bucky again. “You have your family, which isn’t a luxury that all people have.”

Steve’s words make Bucky pause. Because however much Bucky wants to sit and complain, groan and curse about how unfair his life has turned, Steve is right. In a twisted and manipulated way, Steve is right.

He  _ is  _ privileged to have his family. Even if they aren’t physically present, they’re still there. In another state, maybe, but still there nonetheless. Bucky knows what it’s like to have a parent leave and he knows what that absence can do, how it can leave a person fumbling with the emptiness. He had been young when his dad walked out on them but he remembered the loss, remembered the confusion as to why his dad wasn’t coming back. There were things that he did with his dad, like play ball in the backyard, or watch the racecars zip around on the track, and once he left, it never felt the same. Becca and his mom made the absence easier, but it was different. Sometimes not always being a good type of different.

But seeing the pain on Steve’s face, hearing the words he speaks, makes Bucky think that perhaps he was wrong in his judgements. Steve talks like he’s knows what that loss is like. He talks like he’s lived it for a long, long time. Then again, that’s what Steve had said earlier. He had laid out his truth for Bucky to hear.

_ I was lonely for a really long time. _

Bucky darts his tongue out to lick his lips before he slides down onto the bed, slipping beneath the covers and pulling them up to his chin. He can feel Steve watching him, and it doesn’t surprise him when Steve slides down too, copying his movements. They lay still for a moment, listening to the silence in the room, and the faint ruffling of the bed sheets as they get comfortable. They aren’t too close, but close enough that if either of them were to stretch their arm out they would reach the other. The bed may be large, a nice queen sized mattress beneath them, but no matter how hard Bucky has tried to escape Steve in the past, they always end up side by side, sometimes even half way on top.

Bucky quit trying to get away though. He doesn’t know when he stopped, but he has. Now, it’s just a natural thing to be next to Steve, and when he does wake up in Steve’s hold, it no longer freaks him out. Like now, being in the same bed, not that far away from one another, it would feel weird to  _ not  _ be like that. 

When they do stop moving, it’s no shock that they are only a few inches from each other. Once the room turns silent again, Bucky allows himself to dive deeper into Steve’s words. He has a strong feeling that he already knows why Steve speaks so strongly about family, but he still can’t help but ask about it.

“Where’s yours?” he whispers, shifting on his side and shoving his hands beneath his head, letting his eyes search Steve’s face.

Steve follows Bucky’s movements once again, turning onto his side and pushing his hands under his head. That heaviness still lingers around the blond and it makes everything feel so dim compared to the usual warmth Steve possesses. It makes the bed feel cold.

“I was an only child,” Steve whispers back, his voice deep and soothing to Bucky’s eardrums. “So were my parents. I never knew my grandparents on either side and my dad died when I was a baby. I don’t remember him and my mom only took a few pictures when they were together, so I don’t have much from him. And my mom… you already know.”

Bucky swallows uncomfortably, picturing once again a small Steve standing by himself, small and vulnerable in the world with no one to protect him. It makes him ache. For himself, but mostly for Steve.  _ Mainly  _ Steve. He tries to imagine his life without Becca, with him being an only child and it would just be so boring--  _ incredibly  _ boring. He’s always complained about her being a pain in his ass, but she’s been his best friend for so long, always there when he needed her most. But Steve has never had that. He’s never had that sibling relationship. Steve doesn’t even have parents anymore and realizing that Steve is all alone, truly alone without a single relationship to hold him together, Bucky wants to cry for him.

Everything that Steve has said and done now all makes sense. Crystal-clear sense.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. He’s almost certain that there are tears in his eyes because Steve’s gaze suddenly goes soft, the coldness trickling away and that warmth inking it’s way back in. Bucky can’t look away as he watches the beauty behind Steve’s eyes. Instead, he pulls out his right hand and slides the back of his hand against the pillows, letting it rest in the space between them. His palm is facing upward, his fingers gently curled, but Steve’s gaze shoots to it immediately, and he seems to understand what Bucky is offering.

Steve pulls his own hand out from under him and slowly slides it over the pillows, until it rubs over Bucky’s. The blond slots their hands together and releases a heavy, shuddering breath, making Bucky realize that perhaps Steve is still as vulnerable as his past self, maybe even more so.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky silently says, letting his hand squeeze against Steve’s. He means it. He’s sorry for everything-- for hating Steve, for not understanding sooner than he had. He’s sorry that Steve has suffered for so long.

Steve nods his head against the pillows, squeezing back. “I’m sorry too, Buck.”

Bucky knows that Steve means it too.

It makes him feel reassured enough that he doesn’t release Steve’s hand, choosing to let his body drift to sleep instead.

* * *

November 17, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

It’s just past noon when Steve has finally finished his last chunk of paperwork for the day. The folders all stay stacked on the edge of his desk and he sends a quick page to nurse Sharon to pick them up, choosing to stay inside his office rather than venture to the nurse’s station. 

He leans back into his chair, sending a quick glance at the planner open on his desk to double check that his next set appointment is in thirty minutes. After that though, he’s going to have a solid two hour block and there’s no telling when he’ll be able to escape into his office again, let alone check his phone for the camera footage.

So all he has is this thirty minutes.

Steve pulls his laptop in front of him and instantly tracks the cameras to find where Bucky is. First he brings up the kitchen, but seeing Bucky nowhere to be found, he moves onto the living room feed. But as his eyes scan the barren couches and the empty floor, he quickly switches to their bedroom.

But that’s empty too and Steve’s brows furrow as the realization begins to dawn on him. From there, it’s instant panic. Steve sits up straight in his chair, feeling his heart rate spike, and he quickly clicks through the rest of the monitors. His eyes feverishly rake through the feeds of the cameras, scanning the rooms head to toe.

Bottom guest room:  _ empty _

Laundry room:  _ empty _

Entranceway:  _ empty _

Bottom floor hallway:  _ empty _

Second floor spare bedroom:  _ empty _

Second floor hallway: em--

_ There he is _ . Steve closes his eyes in relief and takes a deep breath, slumping back into his chair as the air finds its way back into his lungs.

Steve has to take another steadying breath before he pulls himself closer to the monitor, letting his eyes rake over the brunet. However, when Steve finally does get to see what Bucky is doing in the hall, he has to bite the inside of his cheek, feeling something cold settle in his stomach.

He watches as Bucky stands in front of his home office door, jiggling the doorknob that Steve knows won’t open. Bucky seems to understand that too, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that the brunet keeps trying to get it to open. Bucky tries twice, then on the third attempt he actually tries to put his shoulder into it. At the last second, however, Bucky must think better of it because he shifts his body and his chest presses against the door instead. Steve’s eyes track the movement of Bucky’s neck as he hangs his head, watching as Bucky’s hair falls in front of his face as he takes a step away from the locked door.

He doesn’t get far though. As he backs away from the door, Bucky’s fingers drum along the knob like he’s either debating to keep trying or to just give up. Steve hopes it’s the latter. There’s no doubt in his mind that if Bucky were to get inside that room, they would have an enormous problem. Bucky wouldn’t handle it well and Steve can’t-- he doesn’t know what he would do if Bucky were to actually go in there and see all of Steve’s work, his artwork before he captured the final masterpiece.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave the monitor even as Bucky finally turns to continue down the hall, toward the steps. When he has to change camera feeds he does, making sure he doesn’t lose track of the brunet again. He doesn’t want to feel that panic again, not when it made his heart--

There’s a knock at his door that has him straightening up again. He quickly switches his screen, pulling up some random web browser, before he calls for the person to enter.

He’s not surprised when nurse Sharon walks through the door, her light green scrubs swishing as she enters. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her eyes are always too bright when she approaches him, her smile too stretched and forced.

Steve doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like  _ her _ . She’s worse than Sam by far, trying to force herself into things she has no business in and everytime Steve sees her in the halls or one of the patient rooms, he always makes sure to stay as far from her as possible. She makes him uncomfortable with her passing touches, the looks that she sends his way when she thinks he isn’t looking. Even in Steve’s office she’s no different. 

“These all ready to go?” she beams at him, too much excitement on her face for fetching damn paperwork. Steve just nods, motioning for her to take them when she stands in front of his desk for a few seconds too long.

“Make sure you have them all faxed before the day ends,” he instructs her, even though it’s routine that she should already know.

She nods her head, smiling again as she bends at the waist to pick them up. “Of course, Dr. Rogers. I can page you when the last fax goes through if you want?”

He’s already turned back to his laptop when he replies, “No. That’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure? Because I--”

“That will be all,” he intercedes, picking his eyes up to look at the woman over his monitor, cutting her off. Sharon licks at her lips before bowing her head and rushing out the door, giving him a departing wave as she leaves.

His eyes flick toward the door, making sure that it’s fully shut, then goes back to his laptop. Back to Bucky.

* * *

November 21, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Honestly, it’s a damn miracle that he’s able to fly through his chapters as easily as he is. It almost makes him second guess himself, like perhaps his words are complete and utter shit, but everytime he reads them, then re-reads them, it gives him life to see everything unfold before him, how it all just lines up so well. 

He wants to blame the lack of distractions that Steve’s house provides, but realistically speaking, he has everything there that he would at home, just minus his phone and the endless amount of distractions that came attached to. It might be a far fetched thing to say, but perhaps it was a good thing that Steve took his phone away. Maybe someone should have taken his phone away a long, long time ago and he wouldn’t be in such a rush to finish all the time.

But as he finishes typing up his last sentence of chapter thirteen, he grins to himself as he leaves the page with a cliffhanger. It makes him eager to start up the next section, but he had promised himself that he would take a break once he finished the chapter that he’d been working on for the past few days. It’s an action scene so it’s taken a bit more pumping of his creative juices, and a lot more coffee, but it’s done and he’s happy, and now he gets to relax.

He still has a few hours until Steve comes home, so he waltzes up to the cabinets, pulls out a pack of organic chocolate covered pretzels that Steve has gotten him hooked on, and snags his cup of coffee off the table before he glides towards the living room. He doesn’t eat on the couch, because only imbeciles do that, and instead, slides himself down onto the floor, placing his snack and drink on the end of the coffee table that isn’t covered with the puzzle pieces he’s now half-way done assembling.

Bucky turns on the tv, putting on some good National Geographic so that he can look at the cute little monkeys scurry across the screen while he switches between finding puzzle pieces and stuffing his face with the pretzels. He sits long enough to get three commercial breaks through his nature program before he starts to register the slight chill in the air. He knows he would have noticed it sooner if he hadn’t had his coffee but it’s gone cold so now nothing is actually warming up his body from the inside.

Bucky debates grabbing the blanket off the couch but he figures it will be a hassle since he still wants to use his hands, so he settles on going upstairs to get a sweater instead. He walks into the closet and pulls off a dark green sweater from one of the hangers before quickly throwing it over his body. It’s one of Steve’s so it’s practically engulfing him, and he has to roll up the sleeves a few times until he finds his hands.

Satisfied, Bucky turns and walks right back out of the closet, then strides across the bedroom, until he makes it out into the hall. Normally he would glide right back down the steps, but as his gaze catches the door that’s across the hall from the bedroom, he pauses.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek as he stares at it. In all his time of being here, he’s never seen Steve go into that room, let alone open the door. It’s been locked and hidden away, and although Bucky has thought to ask Steve about it on multiple occasions, he’s somehow always forgets to bring it up.

But lately, it’s been capturing more of his curiosity. Mainly because it confuses him. It’s the only room in the entire house that is locked. Which, considering how the other bedrooms are unlocked, it makes him wonder what Steve could possibly be hiding behind the door.

Even though he knows it won’t open, Bucky reaches out and tries to twist the doorknob anyways. But, like always, it doesn’t budge.

Not an inch.

Bucky sighs and walks away, looking back over his shoulder just once before he steps back down the stairs.

* * *

November 23, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

It’s a common practice to leave personal coffee mugs in the lounge room, where only the other doctors and nurses can enter through access from their ID badges. Most of the time Steve just brings his thermal cup from home but today he hadn’t managed to grab it because he had gotten distracted when Bucky had actually let his hand trail against Steve’s arm when they bid their goodbyes. It was safe to say that Steve’s brain all but misfired and somehow he had waltzed right out of the house without the damn thing, his mind rightfully somewhere else entirely.

Not that he cares. He’d take Bucky initiating skin contact over coffee any goddamn day of the fucking week. In a heartbeat.

But Steve is still a working man and sometimes he needs a little bit of a pick-me-up, which naturally comes in the form of a cup of fresh, black coffee so without his thermos, he’ll have to take the alternate option.

Getting one from the lounge room.

Steve keeps his gaze ahead as he walks through the door, more than aware that some of the conversation from the nurses has died down tremendously as soon as he steps into the room. He immediately catches sight of Peggy and Sharon in his peripherals, sitting close at one of the tables, along with a handful of other individuals that have familiar faces but Steve can’t recall their names even if his life were to depend on it. Then again, it’s not like he claims to be their friends, let alone anything less than strangers. It’s not like he’s going to stop and chat either. He just needs to get some coffee and then meander back to his office, away from all these people, these strangers that just happen to be colleagues.

Steve nods his head in silent greeting as he passes them by and he gets more than a necessary amount of  _ hellos _ and  _ good mornings  _ and  _ how are yous _ in return. He doesn’t verbally reply back, but they should all know by now that a tight lipped smile is all they’re gonna get.

As he gets close to the set of counters that line the furthest wall in the room, he sees and smells the fresh pot of coffee and silently rejoices that he won’t have to wait around for a new brew. His hand goes straight for the cabinet that holds their mugs and he opens it up, quickly eyeing the porcelain cups for his own. Except… when Steve scours the top shelf, then the bottom, and then has to reach up and push aside a few mugs that have overlapped ones in the back part of the cabinet, he frowns in confusion because he most certainly doesn’t see his.

He leaves the cabinet wide open and moves onto the one beside it, quickly going through the contents, but that one doesn’t possess the cup he’s looking for either. Neither does the next one over, or the one after that. Which… the mug is different enough that it can’t be missed-- silver to mimic metal, with imbedded grooves in the glass and a red star painted in the middle-- something that catches the eye. But the more Steve looks, he still can’t find his damn cup--  _ Bucky’s  _ cup to be precise.

It’s the mug that Steve had captured in more than a few dozen of his pictures, the one he had snapped of Bucky holding through his curtainless windows during the mornings he gazed out onto the city, unaware of Steve’s presence or the camera in Steve’s hand. When he had gone into Bucky’s apartment, the cup was one of the first things he had grabbed once Bucky was knocked out and secured in the Jeep. He hadn’t taken it home, choosing to bring it to the lounge room instead so that he could have a piece of the brunet when he wasn’t nearby.

It had been the perfect setup.

That is until the cup apparently upped itself and vanished.

Steve exhales deeply through his nose, laying his palms flat against the counter as his jaw clenches. He can feel the tension in his shoulders and along his spine, creeping up his neck as he forces himself to keep his cool. But how can he? The thought of something of Bucky’s  _ gone  _ and taken right from under Steve’s nose… it makes him more than irritated. It makes him downright livid.

It makes him want to shred the room into--

“Steve-o, my man, catch that Nets game last night?” Sam suddenly appears at his side, clasping his hand onto Steve’s shoulder for a brief second until he reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a mug that he brought back from him and Riley’s trip to Louisiana a few months back. Steve can only envy Sam when the man grabs the coffee pot and begins to pour it, forcing Steve to watch as the black liquid spills down.

If Steve’s mug was in its rightful place, then he would have already poured his own cup and left. Now, not only is he being forced into a conversation with Sam, but he’s also coffeeless. His day has somehow taken a one-eighty degree turn and now he’s plummeting fast.

Steve clenches his jaw even tighter as he darts a glance toward Sam, shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.” Steve almost slaps his forehead at his mistake because now that Sam knows he didn’t watch the fucking game, that somehow translates into Sam’s head as: ‘No but please tell me every painstaking detail’.

Which Sam begins to do and slowly, Steve can feel every brain cell start to shrivel up and diminish. Honestly who gives a fuck about basketball games unless their kid or a family member or close friend was on the team? Steve has no clue how someone could sit down and willingly watch people run back and forth across a court, passing a ball around that more often than not ends up getting stolen from the opposing team. Now  _ baseball  _ on the other hand, Steve can watch that shit for hours.  

But Sam isn’t talking about baseball so it’s only natural that Steve’s attention begins to drift, right over Sam’s ear. It still looks like he’s listening to Sam but in fact, his gaze starts to trickle over the rest of the faculty, eyeing them for no particular reason. They’re all the same people, sitting at the same tables, and talking with one another. Dr. Lee and Dr. Strange are talking animatedly, using hand gestures like always. Peggy is still there chatting away with Sharon as the blonde sips from--  _ fucking hell.  _ The woman is drinking from Bucky’s cup.

Oh, he’s pissed.

Steve squares his shoulders and holds up his hand without turning away from the nurse. “One sec, Sam,” he mumbles, and steps away instantly, heading straight for Sharon. He crosses the room in a second flat and as he reaches the table, both of the women divert their attention onto them. Peggy’s painted red lips stretch wide as she greets him and he likes her enough that he gives her one of those impatient smiles of his, his eyes briefly meeting hers before hardening on the blonde.

“Hello Dr. Rogers,” her smile and teeth are almost blinding and it feels like it sets every inch of Steve on fucking fire, feeling his anger flare. Her blue eyes are bright and wide, and she’s trying so hard to look so innocent and Steve just  _ knows _ .

She’s done it on purpose. God, he hates her. She holds his cup in her hands like Bucky does, wrapping both of her palms around the surface and holding it close to her chest. She makes it look so different than what he’s used to. She’s deceit and lies while Bucky is purity and made of a softness that makes him so vulnerable to the world, to people like Sharon. And she has the audacity to keep looking up at him like she’s done nothing wrong. She looks at him like she expects kind words and praise when all Steve wants to do is shout at her. He wants for her to get out of his damn face, leaving nothing but Bucky’s mug in her absence.

“You have my cup,” he informs her. His voice is carefully constructed as if he’s doing nothing more than stating a fact. 

“Oh,” she perks up, looking down at the cup like she’s just now realized her mistake. Then again, the way she holds it… like she’s familiar with it… it makes Steve pause. He wonders just how many times she’s purposefully grabbed the mug instead of her own. Even worse, he wonders if she’s tried to take partial ownership of him. It’s rare for Steve to come into the lounge room so it’s a toss up on how frequent she uses it.

He’s fixing this problem immediately.

Steve watches as her eyes slide back up to him, the way her fingers dance around the rim. “Sorry,” she smiles, casting a glance towards Peggy before she shyly stands up. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

“It’s okay,” he rushes out. If he were to hesitate for even a second, then other words would certainly find their way out and he can’t let that happen.

Steve stays standing there, looking down at her and silently demanding for her to hand it over already. Because it isn’t hers. She has no right to touch it.

He shoves his hand out when she makes no move to pass it to him and to his frustration, she doesn’t budge an inch. She keeps Bucky’s cup clasped firmly in her hand, coyly looking at him. “I’ll wash it.”

It takes every ounce of willpower not to huff and reach across the table to yank it from her hand. Instead, Steve exhales sharply. “Please do,” he nods toward the sink.

She pushes herself up and begins to walk towards the counter where the sink is and Steve instantly follows. He keeps a foot between him and Sharon as they approach the counter, and once they reach the sink she dumps all of caramel brown liquid down the drain.

She’s taking too long. Even though she’s trying to make up for her mistake, all Steve can see is her shiny nails all over Bucky’s cup again and it makes Steve’s skin crawl in discomfort, twisting his insides. He breathes out impatiently and steps to her side. “It’s fine. Let me do it,” he bites out.

But to his utter dismay, she shakes her head, her blond ponytail swaying against her neck and she sends him yet another smile that is inappropriate in every manner imaginable. “No, no, I got it,” she purs. Her hand shoots out and turns the faucet on and soon enough the water is pouring out and washing the rest of Sharon away from Bucky’s mug. Steve watches as the water trickles down the ridged sides, how it fills the cup up to the brim and forcefully pushes the woman away, like she was never there to begin with.

She pours it out once, then twice, before she grabs a paper towel and dries it all up. Steve watches her every move as Sharon spins on her heel and holds the cup up for him, grinning as she balances the bottom on her palm. “All good again,” she beams.

Steve doesn’t return the sentiment. His gaze locks on the mug, the familiarity of it, and he grabs it from her before she can taint it a second longer.

“It’s a pretty cool design, Dr. Rogers,” she eyes him beneath her lashes. They’re coated in a layer of the black stuff women wear sometimes, making them long, but nowhere near as breathtaking as Bucky’s. Steve’s silence must make her realize their interaction is over because then, she nods her head, shooting him one last smile before she brushes past him. His eyes shoot to the side watching as she goes but just as she steps away, her arm reaches out and grasps his forearm. The connection is over in less than a heartbeat but it feels as if he’s been burned. His gaze shoots to the spot that her skin touched against his own and his jaw clenches even harder than before.

She is away from him before he can say or do anything more.

Every fiber of his being wants to turn around and reprimand her. Part of him debates if he should shout at her and give her a renewed lesson about personal boundaries and the downright disrespect she shows by touching him and his possessions without his permission.

But he doesn’t.

Because there are still a handful of people in the room and even though they are mingling with one another, hardly paying him or her any mind, any outburst is sure to draw their attention.

So Steve keeps quiet. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and lets his fingers trail against the grooves of the cup in his hand, grounding himself before he can lose complete control. Even when Bucky isn’t there, he’s the only thing that keeps Steve sane. Steve needs every reminder that he can have. The camera feeds, the small trinkets that Steve has stored around his office, Bucky’s mug, the lingering feeling of Bucky’s touch… the touch that Sharon has just ruined.

Normally Steve keeps his lab coat on and it usually gets him through the day knowing that Bucky’s touch was the last thing he felt before he left the house but  _ now  _ Sharon’s hands have taken it away and it feels like his skin crawls at where her fingers had grazed him, leaving her mark behind and taking Bucky’s away.

It infuriates him all over again. The hand that isn’t clasped around Bucky’s mug, balls into a tight fist, and he turns towards the counter to place the cup down. He has to take another deep breath to settle himself before he steps toward the sink and turns the tap on. He moves his arm forward and holds his forearm under the stream, using his other hand to trigger the soap dispenser before he scrubs at his skin.

He scratches Sharon away and doesn’t stop until his skin is red, red, red.

 

 

  
  
When Steve enters his office, one hand is massaging his temple as the other cradles Bucky’s mug to his chest. He rounds his desk and throws himself into his chair, setting the cup down before he instantly turns to his laptop monitor. 

The living room is the last place Bucky had been so the laptop screen still has the room on display but now the room is empty so Steve has to click onto the next room, then the next until he spots Bucky.

He doesn’t find Bucky though.

What he finds is much worse.

Through the camera feed of the second floor hallway, Steve sees the door of his office wide open. The sunlight from the window in the office spills out into the dark hallway and Steve can see how the shadow inside moves around the room, how it darts from side to side, frantic and hurried.

Steve lurches up from his chair, grabs his keys and wallet, and books it.  

* * *

Bucky gasps as the door suddenly lurches open, taking him with it and practically throwing him past the archway. He stumbles forward at his sudden loss of balance and gets forced onto his knees, registering for a split second that the hardwood makes the impact hurt. He only recognizes the pain for a split second because he suddenly flinches as the door knob bangs loudly against the wall and his gaze quickly darts to the spot hoping that he didn’t make a hole in the damn wall.

He also stares at the door because  _ holy shit _ it worked. It actually worked! His mom had always said those spy movies were totally fake, but newsflash mother, using bobby pins to pick a lock was totally accurate so ha ha.

Bucky smiles to himself in victory, shaking his head in disbelief because he had been so  _ close  _ to giving up. He had sat there for almost twenty minutes but his efforts obviously paid off. He just feels so damn accomplished because not only is this the first lock that he’s ever cracked open on his own, it’s also the first way he’s ever beaten Steve.

Bucky knows damn well that the lock on this door is completely different than the one on the front and back doors, but he’s not going to sell himself short. He did it.

He fucking did it.

The smile is still on Bucky’s face as he pulls his attention towards the room, letting his eyes finally land on what was so secretive that Steve had to lock it all away. He’s expecting something jaw dropping, or maybe something so embarrassing on Steve’s behalf that it made him try and lock it all away. He expects maybe a room full of storage, or maybe boxes full of Steve’s mom’s belongings, maybe even his dad’s too. If Steve’s a doctor then perhaps the room is full of patient files that are confidential so Steve keeps them locked up like the good doctor he more than likely is. And if that’s the case, Bucky won’t snoop. He wouldn’t dig through the stuff if it was Steve’s parents things either. He won’t cross those lines because he  _ respects _ those lines.

Anything else though, is fair game.

But once the room has Bucky’s attention, once he  _ sees _ , the smile on his face vanishes in the blink of an eye.

Because to his horror, and his confusion, and his utter helplessness, he doesn’t find anything similar to what he expected. He finds  _ himself  _ instead.

Literally himself. Hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures of himself plastered upon the wall, covering every inch of the room. Bucky’s lips part in shock and he feels his lungs lurch painfully as the air gets ripped away, his eyes wide open and absorbing each and every snapshot of horror that he lays his eyes upon.

He sees some of him at the park near his house, some with him when he was out with Nat and Clint, some of his apartment window, some of him standing in his apartment window. There’s some of him half dressed, some of him sipping at various drinks, some of him sitting in restaurants and chatting away with someone that’s been cut away.

Bucky recognizes them all, remembers the days on the walls like they were yesterday. They’re from so long ago, when he had just barely started to find his own footing living out in Brooklyn on his own. It startles him that even before he was brought into this house, before he even  _ saw  _ Steve for the first time, Steve saw him  _ long  _ before that. Weeks, even months before Bucky’s life was ripped away from him.

Steve saw it all.

Bucky gasps as he slowly turns around in the room, finding more and more pictures of himself that he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. It’s all him.  _ Him, him, him. _ It’s his life, taken frame by frame and plastered upon Steve’s walls like some sick form of personalized wallpaper.

When Bucky’s gaze locks onto a section of the pictures that Steve must have taken once he brought Bucky here, he feels like he’s been gut punched. He feels like he’s choking and he hears when the first dry sob of anguish trickles out of his throat. It’s too much to see the ones of him in the wrist cuffs, attached to the bed, and how the dark purple and green bruises peek out. There’s some without the cuffs around his wrists and he realizes that Steve must have taken them off while he slept, which--  _ no _ , Bucky internally shouts, refusing to let his thoughts be distracted. He forces himself to keep looking at the pictures.

He stares long and hard at the ones of the IV needle puncturing his skin, and he doesn’t turn away until a violent shiver wracks its way through his body. The trembling doesn’t stop though.

Because the  _ pictures  _ don’t stop.

From there on, the rest of the photographs are of him asleep, in the darkness, taken in various positions and angles that can only be done by Steve. He knows it’s all by Steve’s doing but as his eyes settle on a particular picture that Steve is in too, Bucky rears back. Because not only is Steve in the picture, his face is pushed close and his lips are on Bucky’s  _ skin _ . Those lips are kissing him while he sleeps. They touch and trail against parts of Bucky’s body that almost ache in familiarity but it’s impossible because Bucky has never consciously felt those touches or kisses and it makes everything so much worse because his own damn body craves things that he’s never known he’s already had.

And he just-- Bucky just loses it.

Bucky surges forward and reaches out, yanking the photo of Steve kissing him from the wall and brings it close to his face so that he can see every little detail. His chest heaves as he stares down at it and even though he  _ wants  _ to see it, wants to see the look in Steve’s eyes and the look of his sleeping face, and the way Steve’s face presses close, tears have flooded into Bucky gaze and has turned everything into a blurry mess.

He almost reaches up and wipes them away but the thoughts of what Steve does to him while he’s unconscious has always plagued him, remembering the sheer, overwhelming panic everytime he shut his eyes and woke up buried in the blond’s arms. Now, Bucky has proof. Now he knows.

He knows he’s been violated on too many levels to even begin to count. And it  _ hurts _ .

Bucky feels the tears slide down his cheeks and his eyes crinkle as he keeps looking at the picture, gripping it so hard that the sides have begun to wrinkle. His body heaves as another sob lodges its way out. His hands shake so bad that small rips have begun to make their way through the picture, ruining it’s perfect waxy surface. And seeing it get ruined, seeing him and Steve get crumpled like garbage, it makes Bucky take a deep, shuddering breath before he grips the middle of the photo and tears it straight in two. Steve’s face falls away from Bucky’s and once Bucky sees the pieces fall to the ground, it makes him feel so  _ alive _ .

Bucky’s gaze darts frantically to the walls again and he lurches forward.

If Steve made this all, then Bucky can’t ruin it. Every single last piece.

* * *

Steve’s hands shake as he jams the key into the front door. It’s slammed open and closed before he can blink, and he’s flying up the stairs before he can even register it. His feet are moving on a mind of their own, with one set destination and desperation fueling his bloodstream.

Steve rushes down the hall and halts as he gets to the last door on the left, the door that’s wide open with the sunlight pouring through.

“Bucky--” Steve gasps between his breathes. His chest is heaving, winded from his hurry to get home and the pounding of his heart, and the second his eyes settle on the brunet in the middle of the room, all of his explanations and reasonable thinking goes out the window.

Steve’s mouth drops open and he  _ stares _ .

Because not only is Bucky on the floor, but so are all of Steve’s pictures. The walls of his office are empty and the floor is littered with-- with the  _ scraps  _ of his pictures, the torn pieces that have pooled together in an unrecognizable mess that had once been the artwork on his walls.

Steve’s chest continues to heave because he can’t breathe and Bucky is glaring at him and his pictures are ruined and he has a headache and he’s angry-- so fucking angry.

“What have you done?” he demands. His throat feels tight and when his words grind out, they’re harsh even to his own ears. He takes a step into the room and his arms flex at his sides, wanting to grab Bucky and force him to see what he’s ruined, but Bucky frantically scoots back before he scrambles to his feet.

Steve can see the way the brunet’s knees shake and how his hands tremble, but Steve also sees the pile of  _ trash  _ and he refuses to take any pity on the other individual in the room, not after this.

“What have I done?” Bucky yells. There are tear streaks down his face and his eyes are red rimmed and splotched, and he looks so devastatingly beautiful that for a split second Steve forgets what he’s mad about. “What have  _ I  _ done?!” he repeats, shouting louder. “Steve what the fuck have  _ you  _ done?! This-- this is fucking insane! Do you realize how crazy this is?”

Steve refuses to hear it. Bucky calling him crazy isn’t anything new. It doesn’t sting to hear anymore. Neither does Bucky’s anger. It all fazes through Steve like a simple breeze of wind, brushing against his skin and nothing more.

Bucky is standing shoved against the wall and he’s still shouting but Steve pays him no mind. Instead, he drops to his knees and begins to card his fingers through the shreds of paper that litter the floor. All of his hard work, gone, and reduced to nothing but confetti strips.

The walls around him mock him with their emptiness and he digs his fingers deeper into the pile on the floor, clawing and pulling the scraps towards him. Bucky ruined all of it, he ruined--

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky suddenly rushes forward and forcefully shoves Steve’s hands away from the mess. The paper shreds go flying as they slip through Steve’s fingers and even though they’re ruined, they were at least in his hands. Now even the scraps are gone and Steve feels something snap inside of him. His eyes snap up from the shreds and train onto the brunet.

He surges to his feet and steps right up to Bucky, pushing him back up against the wall. “I’m always listening, Bucky! Can’t you see  _ everything  _ that I have done for you and for you to do this--”

Bucky clenches his jaw before bringing up his arms and pushing against Steve, causing Steve to go fumbling back a few steps, giving Bucky room again. “Oh, do you?” he yells, his grey eyes burning like liquid mercury. “Everything you have done is  _ illegal _ , Steve! And now, I find out that you were even fucking stalking me!? Do you not see how fucked up in the head you are?”

With every word that Bucky spews, he steps closer and closer to Steve, advancing on him like a predator.

“Kidnapping, drugging me, stalking me,” Bucky seethes. “Is there anything you won’t do?”

Steve’s hands shoot out and clasps against Bucky’s upper arms, holding him in place. “Don’t act like for a second that you aren’t thankful for any of it,” he hisses, watching as Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He continues to hold Bucky still, his fingers pressing hard into the brunet’s skin, but it only takes a brief moment until Bucky shakes himself away.

“ _ Thankful _ ?” Bucky huffs out, his brows shooting up onto his forehead. Then, his face hardens and he pushes his arms out, shoving at Steve’s chest. “Fuck you, Steve.”

Steve sees once Bucky’s fists bunch up at his sides and he instantly tenses up, knowing what’s coming.

Bucky lunges forward and shoves at Steve again. The young man is crying now, and the tears stream in rivets down his cheeks, making his eyes so bright and beautiful. The first punch to his chest isn’t an actual punch, just a solid pressure that Bucky tests out. The hit that Bucky lands is amateur and Steve knows instantly that the brunet doesn’t have the experience in how to take a person down, not like Steve does.

Even though Steve had gotten his ass handed to him almost on a daily basis when he was a kid, he still learned how to land a punch, how to take someone down when he needed to. Now he has the size and power to back up that knowledge, and it’s apparent that Bucky knows that too.

The next punch that Bucky throws is harder and jabs against Steve’s bicep with enough force that it makes Steve’s eyes widen.

Bucky  _ wants  _ to fight.

The third hit is even harder and it jolts Steve back into the moment, watching as Bucky pulls back his elbow to land yet another blow. Steve manages to catch Bucky’s arm at the last second and pulls it to the side, throwing the brunet off balance. It throws Bucky only for a minute because suddenly Bucky forces his leg out and clips Steve in the thigh with his knee cap.

The hit makes Steve grunt and he bends at the waist preparing for another blow, but in his haste to protect himself, he accidentally released Bucky’s arm. The young man doesn’t hesitate to use his arms again and he continues to yell and scream at Steve, shoving against his chest. Bucky keeps pushing and Steve still has a headache and it’s pounding and he’s already dealt with Sharon and he doesn’t want to hear Bucky shouting and he just wants silence, just  _ silence _ .

Bucky goes to push at Steve’s chest again but Steve catches his arms in a vice and even though he wants to hold Bucky tight and close, and stop all of this, Steve pushes back instead.  _ Hard _ .

The second he shoves Bucky away, Steve’s eyes widen in panic because Bucky’s goes stumbling backward with a force that leaves him crashing against the doorframe. Except, the door of the office is still open and Bucky’s shoulder blade catches against the frame and it sends his body flying into the hallway.

Steve instantly soars forward, throwing his hands out to grab onto the brunet but he’s too far away and Bucky tumbles backwards too fast. He manages to rush out of the room, Bucky’s name being shouted from his tongue, and he watches as Bucky slams into the wall of the hall. Bucky’s forehead connects against the wall and the thud that pounds into the air makes Steve’s blood turn cold.

Bucky cries out loudly at the impact and he slumps against the wall, crumpling in on himself before he begins to slide down. Steve is at his side instantly and his hands hover over the brunet, wanting so desperately to touch and make sure that Bucky is okay but he can’t. Because he’s staring in horror as a faint trickle of red begins to slide down Bucky’s forehead. Bucky’s hand reaches up and slides into his hair, his grey eyes wide but unfocused. When Bucky pulls it back, it’s covered in blood. His lips part and he takes a harsh breath through his mouth, his head beginning to tilt backward to rest against the wall.

Suddenly Steve jolts into action and he quickly, gently, grabs both sides of Bucky’s neck and brings Bucky’s head to rest on his shoulder. “Oh my god, Bucky” he whispers as he frantically palpates Bucky’s head to find the injury. It doesn’t take long when he finds it. When he pulls his fingers back, his mouth drops open at the visual of Bucky’s blood dripping down his fingers, covering his palm. Because  _ he  _ did that. To Bucky.

Steve hurt him. He made Bucky bleed.

When Steve moves his head to look down at Bucky, his eyes begin to fill with tears as he sees how unfocused Bucky’s eyes are even as he blinks heavily, fighting to stay conscious. Steve hadn’t noticed it before, but Bucky’s bloodied hand had gripped onto Steve’s arm, clutching tightly at him. There’s a smear across Steve’s abdomen but all Steve pays mind to is the way the red current continues to trickle past Bucky’s hairline, down his forehead, and past his ear to drip onto the collar of his shirt.

It’s too much. There’s too fucking much.

Steve hurries to hook his arms under Bucky and lifts him off the floor. Bucky’s head instantly falls into the curve of Steve’s neck and Steve presses his lips against Bucky’s forehead, feeling the warm blood smear against his own cheek and lips. Steve’s arms are shaking as he darts down the hall, holding Bucky close and making sure he doesn’t tossle the young man too much. He turns into the bedroom and gently places Bucky on the bed, watching as his brown hair splays out against the pillows. Steve can already see the sheets get smeared with Bucky’s blood and he goes to push himself toward the bathroom but suddenly Bucky’s hand shoots out and fumbles for Steve’s arm.

Bucky’s grip is weak but he still finds Steve and holds onto him, not letting him go. “S-Steve, I’m s-s-sorry,” his lips tremble but his hand stays steady against Steve.

It breaks Steve’s heart to hear and see him that. Bucky is in so much pain and it’s all Steve’s fault.

Steve softly places his palm against Bucky’s cheek, nodding his head. “It’s okay, Buck. It’ll all be okay, just-- just relax, okay?” Bucky dips his chin like he’s trying to nod but the movement is jerky and his eyes are already closing before his hand goes loose against Steve. Bucky’s hand falls to the bed and Steve is already moving to the bathroom. He reaches up and wipes the unshed tears away from his eyes, not pausing when he sees the blood that has caked it’s way on his hands and fingers.

He has no time for tears. He has no time for any of it while Bucky is bleeding on their bed. Perhaps  _ this  _ is why he became a doctor, not because of his mom, but because of his future with Bucky.

* * *

Bucky

* * *

 

He hears something. It’s a faint noise that wakes him up, a noise that’s close. It isn’t loud, but it isn’t nonexistent either, resting somewhere in between.

Bucky blinks, his blurred vision coming into focus, and he realizes that he’s in the bedroom. He’s on his back in the bed and Steve is standing at his side, messing with the IV machine.

He groans as he shifts and Steve reaches out to graze his forehead with warm fingers. Steve’s fingers trail down the side of Bucky’s face, twisting his head this way and that, looking for who knows what.

“You have a concussion,” Steve frowns, whispering as his fingers trail into Bucky’s hair. He presses against a spot along Bucky’s hairline, and the pain immediately makes Bucky hiss through his teeth.

The pain makes Bucky remember.

He remembers slamming into the wall, the way he crumpled to the floor, looking down at his hand and seeing it coated in red. So much red.

“I wonder why,” Bucky shoots back, his jaw clenching through the pain. He knows that Steve is more than aware of the sarcasm in his voice but the blond doesn’t mention it. Instead, Steve grabs his chin, and Bucky wants to scoff at how gentle the touch is.

“I didn’t want to do that,” Steve frowns before he eases himself onto the edge of the bed, still looking down at Bucky. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

Bucky wants to laugh. The amount of force that Steve had used to push him had definitely been meant to hurt and punish, to make him bleed. And bleed is what Bucky had done.

He tries to push himself up in the bed but Steve is there, like always, pushing him back down with eager, gentle hands. It was probably a good thing considering how Bucky’s vision swam again with the slight movement. But when Bucky tries to blink it away and his focus doesn’t take effect, he starts to see black dots creep into his eyes. He immediately panics, feeling his breath turn shallow, and in his desperation, his hand shoots out to clasp against Steve’s.

It’s not right--  _ he’s  _ not right. He can hear Steve talking to him, his deep voice calm and collected as he hovers over Bucky, but Bucky can’t make out the words that seem to muffled, he can’t focus on Steve as his vision starts to tunnel.

He can feel his body shaking, can feel the panic overtaking him, but he also feels Steve press against him. Steve’s large hands go to his face, pushing his hair back and Bucky can hear Steve whispering in his ear, telling him that  _ it’s alright, just relax, don’t fight it. _

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand harder as his vision continues to go out. He wants to tell Steve not to leave him, that he isn’t okay, and that he’s scared, and maybe he does manage to get the words out because even though Bucky’s hearing isn’t all that great right then and there, he can hear and feel the deep rumble of Steve’s voice, telling him over and over that “I’ll be here, Buck. I’m not going anywhere. I got you.”

_ I’ll be here. _

_ I’ll be here. _

Bucky believes him. Bucky  _ trusts  _ him, with everything he’s got because  _ Steve  _ is all he’s got.

The last thing he feels is Steve leaning in close, his large chest hovering right over Bucky’s. Even through the haziness of his vision, he can make out Steve’s body as it leans closer and closer, until then, Steve’s lips brush against Bucky’s forehead just as his eyes slide shut for good.

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

Steve lays with his hand on Bucky’s chest, his fingers slayed wide right over the area of the brunet’s lungs. He feels every breath that Bucky takes and with every rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, Steve breathes along with it, like a silent rhythm that keeps them connected. 

His eyes flitter from Bucky to the IV machine, quickly analyzing the amount of fluids that are steadily pumping into the young man, keeping him hydrated. Steve hadn’t wanted to hook him up to the machine, but after three hours had passed and Bucky had made no sign of waking up, it was apparent that Steve needed to take action.

So he had. It was the least he could do, considering… considering it’s his fault Bucky had gotten hurt in the first place. 

Steve’s hand gently travels up, over Bucky’s collarbone, his neck, then his jaw, until his fingers softly comb into Bucky’s hair and instantly find the sealed cut where Bucky’s skin had split open at the impact. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a bad split so Steve was able to use tissue adhesive rather than stitch him up. It was an even bigger sigh of relief that the cut was hidden and that it didn’t seem like it would scar too heavily.

Still, the scar shouldn’t exist to begin with. He shouldn’t have hurt Bucky. He shouldn’t have pushed him as hard as he had.

But there’s no denying that seeing his pictures torn up and thrown across the floor like they were  _ trash--  _ he had saw red. Bucky standing above them and screaming his head off hadn’t made it any better, and Steve had just… he lost it. He had lost his control and had acted out and Bucky had been the one to pay the price.

It all keeps replaying in his head; the sound when Bucky’s skull had crunched into the wall, the sight of Bucky’s face when he had gasped in pain and crumpled to the ground, the all too familiar smell of metallic iron. Steve had been scared shitless.

He’s  _ still  _ scared shitless. If Bucky had stumbled just a bit more to the left, he could have gone tumbling down the stairs and who knows what would have happened then? Or what if Bucky had crashed into the wall at an odd angle, or if he had tripped and gone toppling over to the ground and impacted a larger area of his head? There were too many scenarios that kept playing, haunting him, and he couldn’t close his eyes for even a second.

Steve slides his hand back down onto Bucky’s chest and takes a deep, shuddering breath once he feels Bucky’s chest expand. He hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath before, when his hand left Bucky’s ribs. It was as if his body refused to do so without knowing that Bucky was breathing too.

He eases his body closer towards the brunet, letting his torso mold into Bucky’s side. Steve can feel more of Bucky like this, but it still isn’t enough. It doesn’t put him at ease.

He needs more.

Steve is extremely careful as he slides his arm under Bucky’s head, slotting his arm right behind Bucky’s neck and gently tilting it so that his nose presses against Steve’s chest. His other arm drapes entirely over Bucky’s torso, with his hand still over Bucky’s lungs. The position leaves no space between them. This close together, Steve can see every aspect of Bucky’s face and even though he knows he could draw every inch of the brunet, he still can’t look away.

Because it feels like their time is now cherished. Sure, Steve has always valued every moment with Bucky, but now… after what happened today… Steve knows he could have had a very different night, one without Bucky in his arms, alive. It  _ could  _ have happened and that’s what’s eating him alive.

In his anguish, he doesn’t realize that he must be squeezing Bucky too tight, because suddenly he begins to feel Bucky shift in his arms. His movements are sluggish and heavy, and with one deep breath, Bucky’s eyelids flutter open.

Steve freezes and he can only stare as Bucky’s grey eyes move from looking at his chest, to drifting upwards to Steve’s own gaze. He can see the sleep that clouds the brunet’s stare, and how his gaze isn’t entirely focused, but all Steve can concentrate on is how Bucky seems to burrow himself deeper into Steve’s grasp.

Steve can’t move. He still stays, like concrete, and watches Bucky with a sharpness that would rival that of an eagle.

Bucky moves his arm and as he reaches toward Steve’s face, the back of his hand skims against Steve’s torso. The contact lasts less than a second before Bucky’s fingers find Steve’s face, sliding right over his jaw until he tentatively presses the pads of his fingers into Steve’s lips. Bucky angles his hand so that his thumb lifts up the side of Steve’s mouth as the rest of his fingers curve against Steve’s jaw.

It takes Steve a second to realize what the young man is doing.

When it hits him, he feels warmth begin to creep into the gnawing at his heart. He wants to sob in relief. He wants to pull Bucky so close that they become an array of limbs, chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.

Bucky is taking away the frown that is on Steve’s lips. The brunet is physically pushing it away, trying to make Steve’s torment disappear.

They get only a fraction of a second when Bucky’s gaze locks back onto his, holding, as a silent conversation transpires between them. Steve gives his apology and Bucky gives his forgiveness.

Bucky’s eyes go hazy again, his eyelids beginning to flutter, but before he falls back asleep, he shifts onto his side and presses himself completely against Steve; chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

It’s only then that Steve manages to fall asleep.


	11. Winter Is Here

November 24, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Since he’s been with Steve, there’s never been a day that Bucky wakes up cold. 

He’s always woken up warm to some degree, either buried beneath the thick comforters and sheets on the bed, or stealing Steve’s own heat as they laid side by side. 

He’s never been uncomfortable either. 

Well.  _ Well _ . 

Sure there were moments in the beginning that being so close to Steve had made his skin crawl and had sent him immediately jolting up and running for the damn bathroom, just to get away. Then there were those mornings that first week when he woke up with his wrists restrained to the bed frame, keeping him immobile and at Steve’s mercy but the blond never did anything other than take care of him. Bucky won’t pretend that during their months together there hasn’t been odd moments here and there, because there has and probably will continue to be,  _ but  _ if he were to erase all of that and honestly admit it to himself, every day in between has been like waking up in his own apartment, like he’s not a forced guest within Steve’s house and instead, being someone who actually lives here on their own free will. Because now Bucky is someone who sleeps in the same bed with Steve, who eats his meals with Steve, who watches TV on the couch right besides Steve with. Everything is Steve, Steve, Steve. Wherever Bucky is, there Steve is too. It’s how his life is now, whether Bucky truly likes it or not. 

_ And  _ whether or not Bucky will be willing to admit, there’s a word for what they have. Bucky has steadily recognized it as the weeks and months have passed, but there’s a large--  _ extremely  _ large-- and hesitant part of him that’s too scared to do anything about it, let alone fully acknowledge it. 

That doesn’t mean it goes away though. Because it doesn’t. By far. Those feelings stay bubbled up right on the surface and there’s not a day that goes by that Bucky doesn’t feel them because he does, just as strong and steady as he feels his own heartbeat. 

Which he can feel now. 

It’s a constant, gentle thump against his chest but the very second that Bucky hones in on the feeling, he realizes that it’s coming from the outside of his chest, rather than from the inside. Which… is different, and even though he’s still barely waking up, not even taking the time to open his eyes, he knows that something else is happening. He can feel something pressing against his entire front, something warm and comfortable, and something that Bucky realizes that he’s fully cuddled against.

Bucky opens his eyes.

The sudden light barrels into his retinas and he clenches his eyes shut when the pain hits him. Inwardly, his body hisses at the sensation, feeling the sharp pins drive into his eyes and travel further into his skull. It feels like  _ hell _ . It’s like he’s waking up with an intense hangover, the strong and constant hum vibrating throughout his head, making it seem like a jackhammer is going off and scrambling everything up. Multiply that by a thousand, and that’s what he feels like. 

This is something else he’s never felt either while with Steve-- being in  _ pain  _ when he wakes up. Not so extreme as it is currently. No, he’s used gentle hands and soft cooings, coffee and breakfast, with strong arms shaking him awake and kind blue eyes looking down at him. That’s what he’s used too. Not pain crammed inside his head, building up in the front more so than the back, and threatening to split his skull in half. 

What he’s feeling now isn’t normal. He’s never felt pain on this level before, even way back when he broke his left arm when he was eight. He’s never been one for being overdramatic but this… he’s fucking hurting. 

He scrunches his eyes tighter, feeling his face crumple as he focuses on the throbbing within his skull. Bucky does a quick evaluation of himself; wiggling his toes, tensing his legs, shifting his hips, flexing his hands, moving his shoulders, tilting his head-- and there it is again, that flare up of pain response that tells him it’s his head that’s fucked up. Everything else is fine. Peachy perfect. Except for his goddamn head. 

Bucky forces himself to relax, swallowing heavily as stills his head again. He tries to remember. He tries to think of what he did that made him hurt himself, but it all comes up blank. 

_ No _ , not all of it. He remembers red. So much red; on his hands, sliding down his neck and onto his shirt, dripping between his fingers. He remembers being scared as he slowly lost the sharpness of his senses until it all faded away. But there was… Steve.

Steve had been with him. Steve held him and said that it would  _ all be okay _ . Bucky had listened to him and now… now he’s okay, just like Steve had said. He may have a splitting headache, but he’s  _ okay _ .

Bucky takes a deep breath, preparing himself before he opens up his eyes again. This time he does it slowly, cracking them open inch by inch so that his eyes can fully adjust to the light before they’re completely open. 

It doesn’t hurt as bad the second go. His eyes are still sensitive to the light pouring in through the curtains so he dips his chin down and shields himself from the room, burrowing deeper into the mass in front of him. Bucky’s eyes finally focus and he’s met with a wall of grey fabric, a wall that expands and retracts against Bucky’s hands. There’s a vague sense of familiarity but Bucky can’t remember ever waking up like this before; being coddled like that, with strong arms wrapped around him. He feels… safe. And at ease. Like there’s no better place that he could be. 

He stares, transfixed as his hands move along with the rhythm, and he can feel the faint wisp of breath that breezes over the top of his head, moving the strands of his hair. Bucky has to tilt his forehead back as he follows the figure he’s pressed against and it’s no surprise to find himself looking up into Steve’s face. 

Afterall, Steve had said that too:  _ “I’ll be here, Buck. I’m not going anywhere. I got you.”  _ Bucky remembers that too. 

But it  _ is  _ a surprise to find the blond fast asleep. Steve has always woken up before him and seeing the blond asleep makes Bucky pause, his eyes widening in wonder as he stares at Steve’s face. With Steve being passed out, it allows Bucky to stare as long as he wants without the fear of getting caught looming over his shoulders. 

He’s quick to take advantage of their situation. 

Bucky lets his eyes roam over Steve’s face, looking far too similar to a kid in a toy store. Or maybe a dehydrated man finding an oasis. Either way, he’s greedily soaking up everything he can see. There’s a look of peace and innocence on Steve’s face and Bucky can’t tear his eyes away, letting the image get burned into his memory. 

He lets his eyes scan over the blond’s face, taking in Steve’s features. Bucky has always been aware of how handsome Steve is, how his jaw is sharp and angular, the way his skin is smooth and a pale shade of gold. Everything about Steve is strong looking, his cheeks and nose, and the angle of his brows on his forehead. It all matches up with the shell that contains Steve’s very soul. The shell that pulled Bucky away from his own life and forced him into Steve’s. 

But looking at Steve now, Bucky doesn’t see that. He doesn’t see his kidnapper, his living nightmare. Instead, he sees his goddamn dreams right before his very eyes. Because for as long as Bucky can remember, this is what he’s wanted-- waking up in someone’s arms, feeling safe and warm. And Steve is it. 

What a cruel twist of fate. 

Steve is on his side, facing him, and his arms are firmly locked around Bucky’s body, one beneath Bucky’s neck and the other draped around Bucky’s back. It’s like a cage made from thick muscle and hot skin, something that makes Bucky’s toes curl and steals the breath right out of his lungs. 

Thinking about it now, it’s like one night Bucky went to sleep, and his very dreams conformed themselves into Steve, pulling the blond in until he carried Bucky away into a world of their own. 

There’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind that the feelings Steve has for him are real. The blond has said on more than one occasion that Bucky means more to him than Bucky could begin to understand and after so long together, Bucky can’t even begin to doubt him. Of everything Steve has ever done or said, he’s never lied. Not once. He’s always been straight up with what he means or does and never once has he ever given Bucky a reason to doubt him. So Bucky doesn’t. He hangs onto Steve’s words and actions like a lifeline, taking them in and making the best of what he’s given. In this new life that Bucky has lived, Steve is his only source of stability that keeps him tethered.  

Steve is all he has. 

Steve is all he’s ever wanted too, or at least the thought of having someone like Steve. Somehow, Bucky figures that he has no choice but to bridge the two of those facts together and make something out of it. 

He's beginning to think that he's got no choice.

Bucky pulls his gaze down from Steve’s face and lets his eyes roam over the places they touch. He’s fully and completely pressed against Steve’s wall of warm muscles, his hands sandwiched between their bodies. He slowly lifts up his hand and touches Steve’s bicep, letting his fingers trail over the smooth skin and dips that separate his muscles. It feels foreign yet oddly enough, so  _ right _ . 

Bucky turns to look back at Steve. His fingers continue to trail against Steve’s flesh, ghosting up higher and higher until he skims over Steve’s clavicles, then traces the outline of Steve’s throat. When he reaches Steve’s jaw, Bucky’s hand stills as the blond suddenly presses his head further into Bucky’s touch. 

Bucky wants to pull away, he does. But there’s no denying the tug in his chest at the feeling of Steve pressing into him. 

So he lets his hand curl against Steve’s cheek and he holds on for just a while longer. 

* * *

December 3, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

“Is this really necessary?” Bucky asks, looking up at Steve as he opens up an alcohol swab and begins to rub it against Bucky’s upper arm. The muscles in Bucky’s arm jump at the cold sensation and Bucky’s gaze lowers, tracking the movement of his wrist as it moves back and forth.

“Yes,” he answers, nodding his head. “The flu is nothing to joke about.” Steve keeps rubbing against the skin, letting his eyes flicker between watching Bucky watch him, and where the damp swab keeps going back and forth against Bucky’s upper arm, cleaning the area. The aroma of alcohol is strong between the two of them and Steve can see the way Bucky’s nose scrunches at the smell. It’s adorable, even more so than the kids that Steve comes into contact with at the hospital for their checkups. 

Bucky raises his head and meets Steve’s eyes, giving him a look that says  _ obviously _ . “I know that but don’t you have to like, be in contact with other people?” 

Steve pulls away his arm and drops the swab into the trash, reaching down to grab the clear package that the vaccine is in. His fingers are methodical as he brings it up close to him so that he can carefully pry the container apart. He huffs out a laugh. “You come into contact with me, don’t you?” he asks, smiling down at the brunet. “And I come into contact with other people. Sick people, mostly. It’s a domino effect and the last thing I want is for you to get sick because of me. And I doubt you want to get sick either. The flu is some rough shit.”  

Bucky makes another face at that but when he realizes that Steve has the vaccine shot in his hand now, his gaze sharpens on it. When he inches it closer to Bucky’s skin, the brunet straightens up immediately and watches Steve’s hand as he advances. 

“Are you sure you want to watch it go in?” Steve pauses, letting his gaze trail over the younger man. The needle hovers only inches away. “Most people choose to look away on this next part.” 

But Bucky doesn’t look away from the syringe near his arm. He just shakes his head, still looking down, and Steve takes it as a silent way of saying continue on. So he does, until the needle sinks fully into Bucky’s arm. 

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses through his teeth.

Steve grins as he retracts it, disposing of it onto the tray and grabbing a sealed strip that his fingers expertly tears apart. “I told you to look away,” he sing-songs. 

He applies the band aid onto Bucky’s skin and lets his thumb trace over the adhesive as he lays it flat. Bucky sticks his tongue out and Steve smiles, all while his thumb continues to stroke patterns against Bucky’s skin. 

* * *

December 7, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Steve is sitting beside him on the floor, their knees and thighs pressing against one another as they hunch over the puzzle, trying to assemble the damn thing for good. After dinner Bucky had plopped himself down to keep himself busy while Steve cleaned up, but the blond had taken less than ten minutes before he followed suit, sliding down right beside him. Slowly, the puzzle was getting constructed but it was taking much longer than either of them had initially thought. Then again, it wasn’t like Bucky was spending hour after hour trying to piece the damn thing together. The very second Steve leaves for work, to the very second Steve returns, Bucky sits typing away at his laptop like a madman as the words continue to rush through him for his chapters. On a good evening, Bucky manages at least a dozen pieces. 

Which, is apparently why Steve decided it was time to intervene. Truthfully, if Bucky has to spend another week staring at the half finished 30’s scenery of swing dancers in an old fashioned ballroom, he’s going to claw out his damn eyes. 

So when Steve joins in, it feels like a fucking blessing. Once the blond gets going, it’s almost gobsmacking at how quick he is with the thing; how his long fingers eagerly pluck pieces up then slide them into place almost as quickly as he picks it up, before he moves onto the next empty space of the puzzle. 

Bucky side eyes the blond, watching as those fingers work. Steve’s hands have always looked powerful to him. It could be because Bucky knows what those hands can do, but either way, they just  _ look  _ strong, like Steve could throw a goddamn car through the walls. If he wanted to. 

With Steve darting around the puzzle, Bucky lets his gaze drift upward to the blond’s face. It’s different than how it had been when Steve was asleep. Now, Bucky can see the unbreakable concentration there, how his eyes are sharp and scouring around the table, the small furrow between his brows showing just how deep his determination runs. Bucky can’t help but admire Steve’s ability to do that, to hone on one specific task and let the rest get pushed out of his head, out of mind. Because with such a strong look like that, Bucky doubts that Steve can possibly have the energy to have any brainpower left to focus on something separate. 

Seeing Steve like that makes Bucky wonder if that’s how the man looks when he’s with his patients at the hospital. Bucky figures he must because Steve seems like the kind of person to put everything he has into whatever person in front of him, giving his absolute attention and care to whoever needs it, inspecting every inch of them for the slightest injury just as he had done with Bucky himself. 

He can’t envision Steve being anything but the good doctor with gentle hands and soft eyes and a comforting smile-- he just can’t. The Steve that Bucky has, here and now, can’t be different than the Steve that the rest of the world has. Bucky can’t be  _ that  _ special to have this exclusive side of Steven Grant Rogers. 

...Right?

When Bucky tears his eyes away and turns back to the puzzle, there’s a nagging thought that maybe he  _ is _ .

For an hour, Steve and Bucky sit there carding their way through the pieces. It’s a comfortable rhythm. Steve may have already assembled an entire square of the puzzle by the time Bucky counts his tenth successful piece but Bucky is stubborn enough that he would never admit it. As far as he’s concerned, him and Steve are tied. Still, it makes Bucky silently roll his eyes everytime he watches Steve find yet another piece and he sees that teasing little grin on the blond’s face as if Steve is just as aware of their ‘tie’ as Bucky is. 

In the background, Home Alone has been playing quietly on the TV but once eight o’clock hits, Steve switches on the news. Although neither of them are really paying attention, more concerned about who will find the next puzzle piece, Bucky catches onto the weatherman’s forecast warning and he pauses, his fingers halting as his eyes flick up onto the screen. 

He blinks. 

The usual weatherman is there, talking away about temperatures and forecasts but all Bucky can do is  _ stare _ . Because the weatherman is talking about cold temperatures and flurries hitting tomorrow evening and it’s all-- it’s-- it’s  _ winter _ . 

It’s fucking winter. 

He doesn’t understand how he hasn’t realized it sooner. Not a day goes by that Bucky doesn’t mark off the date on the calendar in the kitchen, and he knows that it’s steadily been getting chillier outside but-- but  _ snow _ ? Winter is here and it’s December and that means he’s been here, away from the rest of the world, for  _ so so  _ long. Almost seven months, if he wracks his brain about it. Since June. It feels just like yesterday that he was strapped to Steve’s bed. Yet, it’s  _ December _ . How has so much time passed? 

How? 

“It’s almost Christmas,” he whispers, his eyes wide and staring at the screen. He figures he’s in shock, but he doesn’t quite know. He just feels numb. To everything. He’s not talking to himself, and he’s not really talking to Steve either. 

“Almost,” Steve nods. 

The grin on the blond’s face stretches wider than ever as he places yet another puzzle piece down. 

* * *

December 11, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

There’s dust everywhere.

He hasn’t been in the attic for years but he hadn’t realized that it had gotten this bad. He can’t even remember the last time he went up here. 

Well, actually he can. The last time had been when he hauled up the boxes of his ma’s clothes and slid them into the farthest corner possible. 

As Steve steps further into the room, he glances in the direction of those boxes, his gaze lingering for one long moment, before he tears his eyes away and carefully glides to the other side where the big green totes are stacked up. His ma had a knack of color-coding their storage bins so naturally Christmas bins were a ‘nice tinsel green’, as his ma had always liked to point out. 

There’s four of them, stacked two by two on top of one another, and Steve reaches down to pluck the first one up. From the feel and sound of the first box, he knows it’s the tree. His ma had ditched her tradition of buying real trees after finding out on Steve’s first Christmas that he was damn well allergic to all of them so she substituted with a fake one instead. Although in Steve’s opinion, even if he wasn’t so damn allergic, he’d prefer artificial bristles over real ones in a heartbeat. 

He grabs it and carefully makes his way down the slim attic ladder, gently dropping it in the living room before he makes his way back up. Bucky offers to help as he turns back to the staircase but Steve shakes his head no. There’s no need to put Bucky at risk, even if it’s slight. So instead, Steve tells Bucky to unbox the tree and start putting it together and he smiles as he watches Bucky spring up from the couch, ready to be put to work. 

The rest of the three boxes are quick to join the first and soon enough, he and Bucky slowly pull out decades worth of Christmas decor that feels like a floodgate of memories when Steve catches sight of the items. His ma had never bought store ornaments. Instead, she made him make a few every Christmas so everytime Bucky or him reach into the bins, they pull out objects that are handcrafted and obviously made by a child. Just like the paper reindeer that Bucky holds up by the strings and turns Steve’s way. 

Steve’s eyes dart from the painted brown handprint and glued on googly-eyes and fuzzy red nose, onto Bucky’s grinning face. 

“It’s hard to believe your hand was ever this small,” Bucky snorts, shaking his head slightly. The date on the back says that Steve made it when he was three yet as Steve looks back at the crafted reindeer, he can’t help but agree with Bucky. The handprint is tiny, the entire thing smaller than Steve’s palm. 

He can’t help but wonder what his past self would say if he were to see himself now. A three year old, let alone his thirteen year old self, would probably never believe their eyes, because who would? No one in a million years would have looked at Steve’s teenage body when he weighed just under a hundred pounds soaking wet, and thought he would turn into what he is now. 

If only they could all just see him now. 

Almost two hours later, Bucky and him take a step back from the tree. It’s nestled in the corner of the room, decked out in homemade ornaments from head to toe, with blinking lights and a bright star on top and they both just stare at it. It’s been so long since Steve had put up a tree, let alone anything to do with Christmas, or any holiday. He thinks of his ma, how she’s been gone for almost a decade. He thinks of the past years when he had nothing but dark rooms and the wind howling outside, everything being so  _ empty _ . 

But he also thinks of now. How he has someone to come home to. How he has someone that he spends every moment of his day thinking about. How he has someone that he loves, more than anything and everything. How his life is good. 

All of it is so, so good. 

Steve turns his head and watches the brunet at his side, still staring ahead at the tree. The lights twinkle over Bucky’s pale skin, coloring him with flashes of blue, red, green, and yellow. Steve’s fingers twitch to capture the moment because not for the first time, Steve is awestruck at how beautiful the younger man is. 

And that man is all his-- his Bucky, his world. 

Steve’s hand flies to his pocket and he pulls out his phone. It takes a quick slide of his fingers to pull the camera up before he raises it into the air. He takes a step towards the brunet and uses his free hand to cup Bucky’s shoulder, angling him more in front of the tree.

Bucky looks confused for a second, his eyes darting from Steve to the phone, until Steve says, “Smile, Buck.” 

Even despite the hues from the Christmas lights, Steve can see the blush high on Bucky’s cheeks. He looks shy suddenly, looking at Steve beneath his lashes. “Steve…” 

“Please.” 

Bucky’s eyes shoot up to his, holding. There’s an emotion that brews beneath the grey, one that Steve can’t place but recognizes from all his time with Bucky. It looks close to apprehension, or hesitation, but there’s something else in there, something that makes Bucky raise his head and slowly let a soft smile trickle its way across his face. His white teeth beam against the lights, on perfect display for Steve and Steve only. 

Steve snaps the photo. 

He also makes it his phone's new wallpaper.

* * *

December 19, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Overnight flurries have been occuring almost on a nightly basis now, according to the weatherman. Bucky believes him because he’s one of those people that believes everything a weatherman says, even though his mom and Becca have always teased him about being too dependent on the forecasts because to them, they’re just bullshit.  _ Unlike  _ them, however, he’s always been a little fascinated with the technology behind everything so it’s obviously not bullshit to him. Besides, who doesn’t like to be prepared for a little bit of rain? Or flurries, in this case. 

The problem though, is that those flurries are something he physically doesn’t experience. Ever. In the two week span that they have been occuring because he falls asleep before they begin and he wakes up long after they’ve melted away. They still happen though. He hears about the cold temperatures and the frost but he doesn’t actually feel or  _ see  _ them. 

Until he does. 

Bucky treads down the steps, already smelling the strong aroma of coffee and breakfast on the stove. Steve had woken him up nearly twenty minutes ago, but he’s barely making it down from his shower, not surprised in the least to find Steve meandering around in the kitchen. The blond is off today so he’s down dressed in some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, almost identical to what Bucky himself is wearing. 

Steve must hear him enter the room because he turns and smiles brightly. “Morning,” he says, his blue eyes trailing over Bucky as he steps toward the counter to grab the cup of coffee waiting for him. Bucky quickly wraps his palms around the porcelain, pulling it up to his face as he takes his first sip. The second the liquid hits his tongue, he groans, and even though his eyes are shut, savoring the heavenly taste, he can feel Steve smiling at him, can hear his faint chuckle too. 

“Breakfast is almost ready. I just started the hash browns, so like, five more minutes?” 

Bucky nods absentmindedly, taking another sip. In the next room over, he can hear the news playing on the TV and his feet take off in the direction. He has every intention to watch it but upon entering the living room, his eyes catch onto something that makes the breath in his lungs vanish. 

Without looking, Bucky sets the cup in his hands on the coffee table, not taking his eyes off the windows as he crosses the room. 

The backyard is covered in a sheet of white and the snow continues to fall, trickling its way past the windows. 

Flurries had been one thing, but snow… 

It’s the official first snowfall of Winter. He had been brought into Steve’s house when the skies were bright and clear, with the sun beating down and birds chirping in the windows. And now… now there’s fucking snow. 

He’s lost so much time. This is his  _ life  _ that’s been stripped away. A life that Steve took. And no one is even looking for him. 

Bucky doesn’t know he’s crying until he feels the tear slide down his cheek. He hastily reaches up to wipe it away, but no matter how hard he tries, they just keep coming, dripping down his jaw and onto the floor.

“Bucky?” 

He hadn’t heard Steve approach but the blond quickly spins him around, away from the windows, his hands tight on Bucky’s upper arms. Steve’s eyes are wide. There is care and concern written on every inch of Steve’s face and Bucky can’t  _ stand  _ it. Looking at Steve, Bucky feels something snap. He feels anger boil deep inside of him, clawing up his throat, and he just wants to scream. 

Bucky rubs at his eyes, refusing to look at the other man. He twists his body and manages to get out of Steve’s hold. “Leave me alone, Steve” he chokes out, his voice raw with his waterworks. He goes to move past Steve but Steve’s arms shoot out again, his fingers brushing against Bucky’s arms but Bucky quickly spins away. “Don’t touch me.”

Steve rears back. He looks like he’s been slapped, his eyes wider than ever. His hands are lifted into the air as if he’s trying to placate Bucky, but Bucky knows better and can see the way that Steve’s eyes glint with calculation, like he’s debating when to reach out and snatch Bucky back in. He doesn’t though, just keeps his hands up and ready. “What-- what’s wrong? Bucky just-- just talk to me, please. Everything has been fine--” 

Bucky turns on his heel and faces the blond, glaring. “No Steve! Nothing has been fucking  _ fine _ !” 

Steve sets his jaw and there’s a split second where Bucky’s heart sinks into his stomach, fearing the worst as Steve lowers his hands. The blond takes a deep breath. “Bucky, please. Can you just let me--” Steve takes a step forward. 

But Bucky was expecting that, and he takes a frantic step backward. “Get away from me,” he demands, pulling his arms up to put even more space between him and the other man in the room, adding a wall of protection. 

Steve freezes. His damn hands are up again and he’s looking toward Bucky like he’s a fucking wild animal, like he’s unsure if Bucky will attack or not. “Let me fix this,” Steve says, his voice deep and commanding. 

It just makes Bucky even more angry. Because how  _ dare  _ Steve. This was all Steve’s fault. He can’t fix what he’s done, what he’s  _ ruined _ , and Bucky is livid that Steve thinks he could even try to. Fuck Steve. 

Fuck Steve. 

“No, Steve!” he shouts. His voice is incredibly loud within the usual quietness of the room that it makes his ears ache. Bucky doesn’t focus on that though. How can he when the very source of all of his problems is standing right in front of him? He glares at the blond as he finds his next words. “This isn’t something you can fix.” 

There’s a good five feet between them, with Steve hovering near the windows and Bucky’s back facing the archway to the kitchen. They’re facing each other. Neither taking their eyes off of one another. Even with all that space, the room feels impossibly small, like the air is getting sucked out. And even with all that space, Steve is on him in less than a second. 

Steve’s arms go around Bucky’s own, holding him in his place, but Bucky has slowly gotten used to Steve’s brute force. He’s able to get an arm free from Steve’s embrace and furiously pushes at Steve’s face and neck, trying to pry Steve completely off of him. But it’s as if with every ounce of energy that Bucky expels, Steve pushes back with thrice the effort. It frustrates him beyond belief and slowly, tears swell up in his eyes once again as he realizes that he’s  _ losing _ . Always losing. 

“You took everything from me,” Bucky shrieks against Steve’s chest, his hands fumbling as he continues to push against the brick wall of Steve’s mass. “My family.” He reaches up and pushes Steve’s face to the side. “My friends.” He shoves at Steve’s shoulder. “My  _ life _ .” He elbows Steve right in the sternum, sobbing uncontrollably as the blond recovers within a blink of an eye each and every single time, as if none of it physically affects him.

“Stop this, now,” Steve demands, his voice hard in Bucky’s ear. But Bucky was hearing none of it. He was blinded by his rage, fueled by the kerosene of his frustrations. 

With a roar, Bucky gives one strong push against the blond and manages to break Steve’s grip, watching as Steve tumbles backwards. It was only a few steps but it’s distance nonetheless and both of their eyes go wide, their chests heaving at their excursions. Steve’s hands go up into the air again. Bucky doesn’t see a surrender this time. He sees  _ vulnerability _ . And just as Steve has ruined Bucky’s life, Bucky wants to ruin that vulnerability.

So he lunges. 

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s waist as he dives forward and the impact takes them both to the floor. Steve’s back hits the floor with a loud thud and Bucky manages to land on top of him, straddling Steve’s abdomen as he quickly scurries to sit up. Their arms mix together as Bucky continues to throw his hits, leaving Steve no choice but to protect himself and block the jabs. 

Bucky can hardly see through the tears blurring his vision yet he doesn’t stop. He just can’t. He keeps shoving his arms against the blond, wanting Steve to hurt just as much as he is. Most of Bucky’s shots are blocked but it doesn’t deter him, just makes him cry out harder in frustration, makes him push against Steve even more frantically.   

Then, just as Bucky thinks he finally has the upper hand, Steve’s hands suddenly shoot out and clamp around Bucky’s wrist, halting the movement of his arms. Before Bucky can process it, let alone gasp at the sudden change in pace, Steve suddenly flips the both of them over and now it’s Bucky’s back that slams into the floor. 

Steve uses one large hand to hold both of Bucky’s wrists, pinning him to the floor, as the other moves to grip Bucky’s jaw, holding his head still as he tries to turn from side to side. Steve’s grip is tight. The pads of Steve’s fingers press unforgivingly into the skin and Bucky grimaces as the pain increases the longer he fights back. 

He knows he’ll have bruises. They’ll be there for days to remind him of this-- how he’s utterly  _ powerless  _ against Steve. No matter how hard he tries. 

“I said... stop.” Steve’s voice is slightly above a whisper and his eyes are so clear as they look down into Bucky’s. Bucky can see himself in those blue iris’, can see how his dark hair is splayed out against the floor and how Steve’s fingers rest so close to his lips, right at the corner, curving against his jaw. They’re so close that if Bucky were to open his mouth, he could devour them. He could make Steve  _ bleed _ . 

Through Steve’s eyes, he watches as his lips part. 

“Bucky, please.” Steve’s soft voice calls out to him again and they seep deep into the recession of his brain. And he  _ knows _ . 

He can’t do it. 

He can’t hurt Steve. 

Because without Steve, he’ll have nothing. 

Bucky’s eyes close in defeat, letting his lips press back together as his head falls back onto the floor. He can feel the tears leak out of the corner of his lids, feel them drip down the sides of his face and into his hairline. Slowly, he stills beneath Steve and with his strength to fight suddenly gone, vanishing just as quickly as it emerged, Steve must realize it. The blond shifts to the side and sits up, his arms never leaving Bucky’s body, and he hauls Bucky into his lap, cradling him into his chest. Bucky’s forehead gets pulled into the curve of Steve’s neck and the blond’s fingers card through his hair, gently scraping against his scalp. Steve’s rocking them back and forth, hushing the sobs that still escape Bucky’s throat. 

He keeps chanting Bucky’s name, softly like a prayer, and even though Bucky can barely see Steve through the tears blurring his vision, he can feel him.

Bucky’s hands fist into the material of Steve’s shirt because even though he wants to push Steve away, he wants to pull him closer to. He doesn’t do either though. Bucky’s hands stay fisted on Steve’s chest, with no movements of pulling or pushing Steve away, just holding him there.

“I have nothing,” his broken voice whispers against Steve’s skin. 

Steve reaches up and uses his fingers to brush Bucky’s hair to the side as he lowers his head to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple. He’s still rocking them back and forth as he says, “You still have me. You’ll always have me, Buck.”

And like always, Bucky listens. 

Eventually, he loses track of time. They must sit there for hours though because when Bucky looks toward the windows, the sun has already set. 

The snow, however, continues to fall.

* * *

December 22, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

His eyes are skimming the screen in front of him, using the mouse to drag the next page down, then the next. He isn’t reading everything word for word, nor connecting sentence to sentence; he’s just checking it. 

Bucky is silently sitting in the chair at the table as Steve towers above him, reading over his shoulder as the brunet sits and waits. Steve is leaned down far enough that they’re eye level and his arms cage Bucky in as they rest on both sides of the brunet, pressing down onto the table. 

They’ve done this before. Plenty of times, but today is the last time Steve will have to read through Bucky’s work because Bucky is finally done. He finished his book. Bucky had typed the closing section of the very last chapter an hour back and the last step before he sends it off to his publisher, Pierce, is for Steve to give the green light. 

So Steve is checking. 

Just like with every chapter beforehand, Steve is looking for anything that doesn’t belong. He looks for Bucky’s cry of help, or anything that would raise alarm at something being wrong with the younger man, but just as Steve finishes the last page, he smiles, and reaches a hand up to brush through Bucky’s hair as he presses a kiss to the top of his skull. 

Because Bucky’s book is finished and there isn’t a single thing in there that is a message for Pierce to come running in and taking Bucky away.  

“I’m so proud of you, Bucky,” he smiles down at the brunet and quickly kisses him again, this time at the junction of Bucky’s jaw. 

Bucky’s body eases beneath Steve’s as he exhales deeply, and when Steve moves to look into his face, he sees a breathtaking smile has found its way onto Bucky’s lips. 

“Thanks, Steve.” 

“You wanna send it now or later?”

Bucky cranes his neck to look upward, meeting Steve’s gaze. “Now, please.”

Steve smiles again and nods toward the laptop screen. “Go ahead.” He watches as Bucky compiles the email to Pierce and he watches as it gets sent away. 

From there, Steve reaches down and pulls Bucky away because after all, he doesn’t need the laptop anymore. 

* * *

Christmas Eve, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

“I have a present for you.”

Bucky picks his head up from the tablet he’s holding and looks toward Steve as the blond enters the living room. There’s a small box in Steve’s hands with a bright red bow on top and Bucky perks up in interest. He sits up on the couch and quickly drops the tablet onto his lap, giving Steve is full and undivided attention as he comes and sits right next to him. Bucky is turned sideways on the couch, sitting criss-crossed with his legs beneath him, causing Steve to twist his torso so that they’re facing each other.

“Do I get to open it?” he asks. His gaze darts from the bow, to the box, to back up at Steve’s anxious face. 

Wordlessly, Steve nods and he holds it out, waiting for Bucky to take it. Normally Bucky wouldn’t hesitate twice after being given a gift but there’s something about Steve’s face that makes him pause. There’s apprehension practically  _ bleeding  _ from the blonde. Steve’s eyes are tight and his lips are red like he’s been biting into them, and seeing Steve like that makes Bucky second guess whether or not he should actually accept the gift. It makes him wary and as he glances back down at the box, he realizes that his hand is outstretched but it’s not making any move to take the gift from Steve. 

“I’ve thought about it for a while, Buck, and even though I don’t-- I don’t think this is a good idea-- but I want… you  _ deserve  _ this.” 

Bucky stares right into Steve’s blue eyes. He say anything in return because he  _ doesn’t  _ know what to say. Steve must realize it too because instead of waiting for Bucky’s response, he carefully extends his arm and drops the box into Bucky’s hand. 

It’s incredibly quiet as Bucky pulls it into his lap. He darts one last glance at Steve’s anxiety-filled eyes before his fingers prop the lid off. And when he sees what’s inside--

He gasps.

“Steve…” Slowly, and with shaking hands, Bucky reaches into the box and grasps the item inside. He hasn’t seen it in so long but there’s no mistaking what it is. 

It’s his phone.  

Bucky knows he’s staring at it like it’s something he’s never seen before, like it’s something alienish, but he can’t help it. It’s his goddamn  _ phone _ , case and everything, just like how he last saw it. 

It’s Steve that reaches out and taps the home button, lighting up the screen. And then Bucky’s looking down at a picture of him and Becca taken right before he left. His mom had taken it right after they finished packing up his car and she snapped the photo just as him and Becca started laughing so their mouths are open and their eyes are clenched shut and they look insane but-- but they also looked so happy and that’s why Bucky had set it as his wallpaper. 

And seeing it now, makes tears wield up in Bucky’s eyes. 

“You can call them, Buck,” Steve’s soft voice pulls him back into the moment, and he just now realizes that Steve’s hands are gently holding onto his, cupping the phone too. “I want you to call your mom and sister. I--I want you to but… but you can’t-- they can’t know, Bucky.”

Bucky is hardly paying attention to him. His thoughts are racing a million miles a second and he’s clinging onto the hope that maybe he’s actually going to talk to his family for the first time in months and it’s because of  _ Steve _ , the same person who took them all away. The phone feels heavy in his hands yet also so extremely fragile like it’s seconds away from crumbling into dust. 

Steve’s right hand finds Bucky’s chin and forces his head up, until Bucky’s looking directly at him. “Do you understand? I’m going to be right here through it all and if you do anything--” Steve swallows heavily and Bucky can see so much emotion in those bright blue eyes that he can’t fucking breath. “Don’t ruin what we have.” 

Bucky can hear the warning. He’s not ignorant to know that this gift doesn’t come with a minimum of a thousand do’s and do not’s. He knows what he’s being told and he knows what he isn’t supposed to do.

So he nods. 

Steve nods too, like he’s reassuring himself, or maybe the both of them, and then, his hand moves from Bucky’s face and taps the phone app. It’s Steve that finds the ‘Mom’ contact and it’s Steve that hits dial. 

It’s Steve that clicks the ‘speaker’ option and it’s Steve’s eyes that Bucky’s frantically darts to as the loud ringing suddenly echoes into the room. 

Bucky can feel his heart pounding in his chest, can hear the blood roaring in his ears, but when the line clicks, everything seems to suddenly stop.

“ _ Bucky _ ?!”


	12. Codes and a Crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate myself for delaying this update SO to make it up, I made this into a monstrous chapter. A whopping 12k words just for you lovely readers!

Bucky

* * *

 

Hearing his mother’s voice come through the phone is surreal; so surreal that it makes Bucky close his eyes, savoring a sound that he thought he would never hear again. For a moment he’s overwhelmed, stuck at a loss for words. It’s like he has so much to say that it somehow all gets jammed up within his skull, turning him mute and leaving him wide eyed as he tries to catch on to the voice ringing out into the air. 

On the other end of the phone his mom hasn’t taken a breath in the questions she’s spewing out, the urgency so strong in her voice that it forces him to take a deep breath and  _ focus _ . 

“H-Hi mom,” he breathes out, feeling so much more than his body deflate in indescribable relief. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” her voice booms and he cringes at the anger he can hear. “Why the  _ hell  _ have you been ignoring my phone calls? You cannot believe the amount of frustration and worry that we have had because of you-- since you can’t have the decency to call us. Do you have any idea how many grey hairs I have gotten in these past months? A few texts a week is a slap in the face, son, and I have tried calling you and--” 

Steve quickly reaches out and the very second that he begins to move, Bucky tries to draw away, leaning back into the pillows and pulling the phone towards his chest. He feels panic shoot through his systems because he’s just gotten the phone back and it hasn’t even been a fucking minute and he’s missed her so damn much and Steve-- 

Steve leans in as Bucky pulls back and just as Bucky opens his mouth to beg Steve to stop, Steve’s finger taps on the mute button, blocking their voices from his mom. 

Bucky’s gaze drops to the phone, his mouth still open as the argument sizzles on his tongue, before he looks up at Steve. “You’ve been busy with your book,” Steve says. “You decided to rent a cabin to finish writing it and you promised yourself a no phone policy until you completed it. The texts that you sent were just to appease your family so that they wouldn’t think you were in any danger. Understand?” It dawns on Bucky then that Steve is giving him his instructions, the answers to all of his mom’s questions. It’s their alibi. It’s what Steve thinks will make everything okay, like he hasn’t missed out on months. 

Bucky’s throat feels tight suddenly. What Steve wants him to say is  _ lies _ , all of it. His mother’s voice is still going on in the background but it’s quieter than before. It’s so quiet that Bucky can hardly hear and even though he just wants to unmute the call and tell her the truth, like what she deserves to know, Steve’s hand is tight around his wrist, reminding him of what not to do. 

Of what not to ruin. 

The tears slowly trickle in, making his eyes glossy at he stares at Steve. He can feel his resolve quickly crumbling apart-- so fast that it makes him want to question just how strong it was beforehand but hearing his mother’s voice reminds him that he doesn’t have the time for that right now. 

He wants to talk to her instead, so he does what he must. Without looking away from Steve, Bucky slowly nods his head. Of course he understands. 

It would be a foolish thing for him not to. 

Seeing him nod must satisfy Steve’s worries because he uses his large hand that’s still wrapped around Bucky’s wrist to pull Bucky forward, back to where he was. Steve doesn’t move back though. He stays where he is, less than an inch away, and they’re so close now that if Bucky were to dip his chin, his forehead would be pressing against Steve’s clavicles. 

“Good,” Steve murmurs into his ear and Bucky can see the small, pleased smile on his face, making Bucky feel a strange flutter of… something. Then, Steve reaches out and tucks a stray piece of hair that must have slipped past Bucky’s ear, gently putting it back into place. Instead of pulling his hand back into his lap, Steve lets it drop onto Bucky’s thigh. 

The touch feels hot and heavy even through his pants. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a sign of encouragement or if it’s a warning, but either way, the gesture gets blurred into being a bit of both. Steve unmutes the call and nods his head for Bucky to continue.

“--and for you to suddenly call today, of all days, and say ‘hi’? Do you want me to go into cardiac arrest now or later? Actually, I think I might cry instead because Bucky you have no  _ idea  _ how much I miss you.”

No, she had no idea how much  _ he  _ missed her-- them--  _ everything _ . 

“I miss you too,” Bucky says, having to clench his eyes as he feels the emotions bubble up his throat. “I’ve missed you so much, mom, and I’m sorry I haven’t called it’s just…” Steve’s grip gets tighter and Bucky has to work hard to keep his voice neutral. He pulls his eyes up to Steve’s and holds as he continues, “... I was working on the book.”

“The  _ book _ ? You didn’t answer our calls because of your book? Do you understand how much of an asshole that makes you seem, since you couldn't take a single minute to return any of our calls? It's been months--  _ months _ , Bucky! Talking to us didn’t stop you before with the other novels, so why now?” 

“I--I kept having blocks and I just needed-- I needed to get away from the distractions.” 

“Oh, so we’re distractions now? James Buchanan, your  _ presence  _ is more important than a damn book and you know that. You disappeared without telling any of us. A heads up would’ve been nice.” 

“I know, mom. It’s just--” he bites the insides of his cheek, mind working a million miles a minute just to stick with the story Steve has given him. It’s hard to imagine this story that Steve has spun together because none of it, not a single piece, is something that Bucky would do. “--just there were days before I left where I would just look at the screen and… and nothing was coming. I was getting nothing done and you know how I had my deadline so I just…" He just what? Got kidnapped? Got drugged? Got locked inside? Got taken away from everyone and everything? Bucky's chest feels too tight as he sits there clutching at the phone. 

All it would take is a second for him to cry help. One small, quick little second and it would all be over with. 

All he had to do is say the words. 

But looking into Steve's blue eyes and seeing… seeing those emotions make Bucky swallow his cries of help down, locking them back into a place deep in his gut.  

"...I left," he says instead. "I left, mom."

“Yes, James. That’s the problem. You goddamn left and the texts that you sent were so vague and you never answered any questions so…” his mom’s voice trailed off and he could just hear the amount of disappointment clouding her tone. 

“I’m sorry, mom,” he breathes out, downcasting his eyes. He keeps his voice that of a whisper because anything louder would let her hear just how much his voice is threatening to crack. There’s so much that he can’t say and it’s  _ killing  _ him. His mouth opens and closes, but he’s got nothing. 

For a handful of seconds, he’s met with silence on the other end. And as each second ticks by, he swears that he can feel pieces of his soul break away. The tears that were previously obscuring his vision now threaten to spill and he can feel the congestion building in his face, making his nose stuffy. God, he wants to cry.

And just when he thinks he’s about to, Steve scoots even closer and pulls him into his chest. Steve’s strong arms wrap around his back and he positions them so that Bucky’s head gets nestled into the curve of his neck and shoulder, letting his hand tangle it’s way in Bucky’s hair. The position is nothing new. Bucky has felt Steve’s arms around him more times than he could count, their body heat mingling together as one.  _ But _ . Steve trying to comfort him is new and for the first time, it’s actually working. 

The relief is instant, so is the way that Bucky leans deeper into the embrace. Steve’s lips press against the shell of his ear and somehow, the knots in Bucky’s gut vanish. He takes a deep breath and his mind just goes blank as he becomes overwhelmed with  _ Steve  _ instead-- Steve’s arms, his warmth, his lips, his scent, his everything being so so close. 

“Well,” his mom’s voice breaks the silence and his eyes lazily find the phone screen still clasped in his hand. “I take it the book’s done now?”

Bucky closes his eyes taking another deep breath before he answers, “Yeah. It’s done. I’m in the final steps of finalizing everything with Pierce.” 

“Thank goodness,” she cries out and Bucky can hear the amount of joy in her voice now. There’s so much of it that Bucky can’t help but smile and when he turns his head to look up at Steve, he is too. “Even though I'll still be better about the whole situation for about another couple of months, I’m so proud of you, son. All of your hard work has finally paid off!” 

Bucky grins into Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks, mom. It took a while but it’s done now.” 

“So does this mean you can answer our phone calls now?” 

He mentally screeches to a halt. The smile vanishes off of his face. The good mood suddenly evaporating. 

Because how does he answer that? Is the phone a one-time thing? What if after this phone call is up, then he never speaks to his mom ever again? There’s too many variables and it leaves him feeling off kelter, making the panic fizzle up again. 

His fingers tighten around the phone as he looks at Steve again. He knows that Steve heard his mom’s questions but it seems like the blond is set on ignoring it. Instead, his jaw is clenched tight and he’s staring out the windows. His arms stay locked around Bucky. 

The silence returns again but this time it’s not as long as before because on the other side of the phone, he hears a door open and close. His mom must forget about the question she asked too because suddenly she’s calling out Becca’s name. He catches the faintest sound of a conversation that must happen between his mom and sister before there’s a loud scuffle and then a beat later, the line erupts. 

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN??!” Becca screeches. She does it so loudly that both him and Steve jump, and maybe Steve’s just a bit anxious because his hand goes flying back up to Bucky’s wrist, his fingers just a brush away from snatching the phone. 

Bucky’s eyes dart from those fingers up to Steve, freezing in his arms as he waits for Steve’s move. Steve will either take it away or he’ll let Bucky continue on, but whatever he chooses, Bucky will have no choice to go along with it. 

Steve doesn’t take it away. 

Bucky doesn’t realize that he exhales in relief until he feels himself sag further into Steve’s arms, letting himself focus back on his sister’s voice. 

“Helllooo?!” 

For a brief moment he closes his eyes as he hears her voice again. He feels his core ache at having gone so long without it, never realizing how much he depended on her or his mom to keep him going until they were suddenly gone, suddenly  _ ripped  _ away. 

“I’m here, Becks,” he rushes out, not trusting his voice as it suddenly thickens. “I’m here.” 

And for the first time in a really long time, he really is. 

Naturally the first twenty minutes is her scolding him, calling him the world's greatest asshole in what seems to be every language to ever exist. Then, from there his mom jumps back in and they tag team him for an additional ten minutes and if one can make him feel like a total piece of shit, imagine the damage that they  _ both _ do. 

But  _ then _ , when that’s all dealt with and put aside, they all talk. He sits for an hour and gets lost in it all. His mom catches him up on the family gossip, Becca tells him all about the fall semester that has already come and gone, and then they ask him about himself-- which is easy to answer because it’s all about his book being completed and they don't bring up any possibility of romance in his love life because if he hadn't had the time or energy to call them, they must think that he didn't spare anyone else the ounce of effort either. He's thankful for it because through it all, not once does Steve leave. He stays there listening to every word, even silently laughing when Becca starts teasing him like only a sister knows how to.

“So, when should I book the Cabo trip, huh?” he can hear the amusement in her voice. The call is just under two hours long now and he can hear the hushed movements of his mom cooking dinner in the background. “A couple months of isolation must have you dying and what better way to repay us for our constant worrying than actually treating us to a heavenly vacation, hm?”

In truth, Cabo is so far from his mind that he actually laughs when she reminds him. Because just how long has it been since they first discussed that?  

“I… I don’t know Becks,” he answers truthfully, exhaling heavily and biting down into his lip. “Let everything settle with the book and then we can talk about Cabo, okay?”

“Of course, Bucky. Do your thing but don't leave us in the dark this time, okay? I’m happy for you and congrats on everything. I know how hard you've worked on the series so I know you must be flying up to the damn moon," she laughs. "Your living the life right now!” 

Another hour later, after they’ve both said their goodbyes, those words still ring in his head. To them, they think he’s at his peak, finally accomplishing a milestone that he’s been after for so long. It’s not their fault they don’t know better. It’s not their fault they don’t know the  _ truth _ .

No, the fault lies all on Bucky (and maybe just a little bit on Steve too).

Still, hearing that phone line disconnect is one of the worst sounds that Bucky has ever heard and the very second that the silence fills the room, the phone is pried from his fingers. He doesn’t watch what Steve does with it but by the time Steve re-enters the room, the tears are streaming down Bucky’s face. Steve pulls him back into the position they were in before and their chests are flush against one another now as Steve engulfs him completely. Steve wipes the tears away with quick swipes of his fingers and he whispers soft hushes into Bucky’s ear. 

It feels… good, but the echoes of his mom and Becca are still to fresh to ignore. He’s missed them so much and just as fast as the phone call began, it seemed to end mere minutes later and he wants  _ more _ . 

“I miss them so much, Steve,” he cries into the blond’s chest, clutching at the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt. “Please, just let me see them.”

”Bucky, we can't do that. We've been over this, remember?"

He tries to push himself off of Steve’s chest but the arms locked around him are tight and don’t budge an inch. Bucky looks up instead. “You saw that I won’t say anything. I-I won’t! I just need to see them and-- and you can come too, just _ \-- _ ”

Steve shakes his head. “No, Bucky. I gave you this as a gift. Please don't take advantage of it.”

“I can’t just not call them again. You heard them make me promise, right? I can’t go months without talking to them again, Steve.” 

“I know that,” Steve says, his voice so strong that it rattles through Bucky’s bones. “But that also doesn’t mean that you call them every day, let alone every week. You’re your own person too, y’know? They don’t need to know every little detail of your life.” 

Bucky shakes his head and tries to pull his arms between their chests, trying to distance himself, but Steve doesn’t let him. Bucky huffs in frustration but settles back down, dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder. 

Neither of them speak for a long while. In their silence, Bucky listens to the strong thump of Steve’s heart, focusing on how they breathe as one. 

“They mean everything to me,” he whispers eventually. 

He feels, rather than sees Steve shake his head. “I don’t think that’s entirely true. If they did, they would be here with you instead. You would've never been alone." 

Something crumples on the inside. He knows that Steve isn’t right and he wants to argue, yell at Steve until Steve knows the  _ truth _ , damnit, but he suddenly has no energy to do any of it. He feels drained-- as if all of his emotions are suddenly slamming right into him all at once. 

He must look it too because Steve starts to lean backwards into the pillows and he’s pulling Bucky along with him. Like this, Bucky is laying fully on top of Steve. Steve’s arms are still enclosed around his back but Bucky feels him shuffle slightly and then one of the throw blankets is being draped over them both. He shouldn’t be comfortable, given everything, but he is. 

With his ear right over Steve’s heart, he listens to the constant  _ thump, thump, thump _ , until his eyes flutter close and he feels something important shatter on the inside.

* * *

Christmas Day, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

Since his mom died, Christmas has been... empty. 

Mostly lonely though. So incredibly lonely that Steve actually volunteered for the holiday shifts at the hospital while everyone else traveled to their loved ones. The times that he did somehow get assigned off, which he had a strong hunch was because of Sam or maybe even Peggy, he would fix himself in front of the couch and watch reruns on the Hallmark channel as he nursed a strong glass of Scotch, trying to drown everything away. 

But this year is different. He had reserved off at the hospital over two months ago and sure, for the first time in a long damn time he’s put up a tree and he’s hung up some Christmas lights but none of that is what actually makes Christmas  _ Christmas _ . After being so used to spending the holiday with nothing eventful and no one to spend it with, Steve can’t help but look down at Bucky, soaking every detail of him in. 

They’re on their bed and Steve’s back is pressed up against the headboard while Bucky sits in the gap between his thighs, Bucky’s back flush against his chest as Steve’s arms pull him close. They haven’t actually made it out of the bedroom yet because it’s Christmas morning and Bucky was adamant that he calls his family. So Steve had abid by Bucky’s wishes and even though he had felt the urge to go and prepare breakfast, he stayed and listened to every word, categorizing the two voices that drifted through the phone-- Becca, and the mother of the Barnes siblings. 

Bucky’s wrapped up in one of Steve’s sweaters (forest green because they’re being festive) and even though his head is nestled on Steve’s clavicle, Bucky’s grey gaze is trained downward on the phone in his hand.  _ Not  _ on Steve. 

Initially, Steve felt that it was only right that Bucky was able to call Becca and his mom on Christmas day but that was over half an hour ago and now, the longer and longer that Bucky is talking to them, it feels like the brunet is also being pulled away from him. Steve’s jaw tightens when Bucky suddenly chuckles at something his sister says and it’s so damn overwhelming how tight his chest gets, feeling the jealousy rage inside of himself. 

_ This  _ is why he didn’t let Bucky have the phone. Not because he was some psychopath and wanted nothing more than to estrange Bucky away from the world. Rather, he wanted to have Bucky to himself, sharing the younger man with no one else. It just happened that in order to actually do that, Steve had to cut him off and lock him away. 

But today is Christmas and it’s their first one together and even though Steve is allowing the phone call out of respect and nothing more, he finds it starting to tug on his patience. There’s just something about seeing the way Bucky’s mouth curves up and how his eyes brighten when his mom jumps into the conversation, that makes Steve feel like he’s  _ losing  _ Bucky and he can’t deal with it.

Steve releases his right arm from Bucky’s waist and uses it to reach up and tilt Bucky’s head back. He brushes away the hair that has fallen in front of the younger man’s eyes and leans forward to press a kiss to the shell of his ear. “We need to go eat,” he whispers, letting his lips linger. The arm that is still around the man between his legs goes to wrap around Bucky’s wrist, letting his fingers brush against the phone. “Say goodbye, Buck.”

He isn’t blind to the way Bucky’s eyes shutter in defeat. Steve isn’t going to lie and say that it doesn’t hurt to see Bucky shut off like that but he’s got no choice here. He isn’t going to just sit there and let them continue to take Bucky away. They’ve had enough time with him-- years and years where Steve wasn’t even a thought in Bucky’s mind. That hurts much worse than any concern for Bucky’s relationship with his family.

They’ve had their turn, and now it’s Steve’s. 

He sits there patiently as Bucky begins to say his goodbye, all the while his fingers stroke into Bucky’s skull, holding him close. It’s with Bucky in his arms that Steve realizes just how different this Christmas is and how right then and there, all of the others seem worth it if he gets to spend the rest of his years like this instead. 

* * *

December 28, 2015

Bucky

* * *

 

Somehow he forgot. 

Maybe it was just because so much time had passed or maybe it was because Steve had made it all so easy but  _ somehow _ , Bucky actually forgot that he was trying to escape. He forgot that he wasn’t supposed to like Steve or get along with him, and that he wasn’t supposed to be locked away in Steve’s house, waiting aimlessly until Steve got home, or that he wasn’t supposed to enjoy the feeling of Steve’s arms around him at night, or how Steve’s warmth was always so comforting and enticing against his skin. 

Bucky forgot all of that and somehow he accepted it instead. He stopped trying to pry himself out of the house, desperately scratching at the doors and windows for hours on end. He stopped hoping and he stopped  _ hating  _ Steve. 

What’s worse is that if it weren’t for the phone call that Steve allowed him only a few days back, Bucky knows he would still not have realized just how lost he has become. Somewhere along the line of his freedom being stripped away, he had turned a blind eye to what truly happened to him, as if he refused to believe it, and  _ now _ \-- now his eyes are being pried open and he’s being forced to see everything for what it truly is. 

It hurts. 

So damn much. 

Because if the Bucky from that first day here were to see him now-- how utterly  _ desperate  _ he is now to have Steve near him and how he smiles and laughs with Steve and gets fidgety while Steve is away-- the old Bucky would be furious and disgusted and so fucking ashamed. 

Somehow he forgot but the beauty of it is that  _ Steve  _ did too. 

x-x-x-x

It’s a normal morning when it happens.

Bucky’s sitting at the kitchen table eating french toast Steve prepared when the blond announces he’s leaving for work. Bucky nods, halfway through reading a printed out email from Pierce, and pauses just enough to pick his head up and see the look that Steve is giving him-- the soft smile and those kind eyes. 

Bucky has to dig his fingernails into his palm to remind himself not to fall for it. Not anymore. 

He nods his head in a silent goodbye and turns his attention back down onto the printed email. Bucky rereads the same line at least ten times, more than distracted feeling the heavy weight of Steve’s gaze. He knows that Steve is looking at him, waiting, because they both know that Bucky never stays quiet when Steve leaves. Not anymore. It’s part of their routine now that when Steve has to go to work, or to the grocer, or anywhere-- Bucky at least verbally says goodbye, even if it’s nothing more than a whispered, single word. 

Bucky almost doesn’t say anything. For a few seconds longer, Bucky let’s his gaze drift from the paper to his plate of french toast, picking up the fork and stabbing one of the pieces. But the  _ silence _ . It hangs in the air and the longer that it does, the more it makes Bucky squirm in his chair because he knows what Steve wants and Bucky just wants to pl--

“See ya later,” he rushes out so fast that the words all blend together, before he brings the fork up to his mouth and stuffs his face. At least now he has an excuse not to talk. He doesn’t look back at Steve’s face but he knows that if he were to, that look would be on Steve’s face again. 

But then a noise vibrates into the air and Bucky’s attention snaps toward Steve. He sees that Steve’s head suddenly tilts downward and he pulls a small rectangle from his pocket-- a  _ pager--  _ and he must be reading something from it because his brows furrow together. It makes sense that Steve carries around a pager for work but Bucky’s never seen it before and now that Steve has it out, Bucky can’t help but stare. He’s never worked one before but it has to resemble some type of communication similar to that of a phone. It has to be able to call 911. Or at least have direct contact to nurses and doctors who could most definitely be able to call the authorities. 

Bucky bites into his lip as he watches Steve continue to look down at it. Steve is so distracted by the pager that his arm is still outstretched onto the keypad and--

Bucky’s mouth drops open. He feels his stomach plummet and he desperately tries to get control over his breathing when he realizes it’s turned shallow. Because yes, Steve is still staring at the pager, and yes, he also still has his hand stretched out, but what Steve doesn’t realize is that he has his finger resting right over the number 1 on the keypad and when Bucky looks towards the little screen that shows the password, he sees the little asterisk that means Steve has already typed the first number in. 

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

Bucky leans forward in his chair and presses his palms hard onto the table. He can’t believe his eyes. Steve doesn’t make  _ mistakes _ . After so many months, never once has he ever given Bucky direct line of sight like he is now and seeing that first digit of the code makes Bucky’s mind race because now he knows something. It might just be one little number, a simple digit, but in the grand aspect of things, it’s so fucking huge. Bucky feels like his heart is going to goddamn explode. 

But as much as Bucky wants to watch Steve type in the rest of the code, Steve’s gaze suddenly lifts up and goes toward him. Bucky shifts his eyes and meets Steve’s, keeping his face carefully neutral.

“One of my afternoon appointments was cancelled,” Steve informs him as he stuffs the pager back into his pocket. “So I’ll be getting home about an hour earlier than usual.” 

Bucky nods. He doesn’t know what else to really do other than that. His mind is still racing so Steve’s words go straight through one ear and out the other. 

“I can pick up some Panera if you want? Maybe even a new movie?” 

Bucky pulls his attention down and stabs at another piece of toast, nodding his head. “Sounds good,” he answers back. He really isn’t listening though. He doesn’t care about food or some stupid new movie. 

Steve smiles, then turns back toward the door. “Sounds like a plan then.” With Steve’s back to him, Bucky can’t see past him. Steve’s shoulders block all of his available line of sight and like usual, he’s shown nothing now. 

What he  _ does  _ do, however, is listen and count the beeps as Steve types in the rest of the code. The digits are pushed in fast as ever but the small nanoseconds of silence in between make it easy for Bucky to distinguish the amount of numbers. 

There are seven high pitched key alerts, plus the 1 button Steve hit earlier before he was interrupted with the pager so that makes for a total of eight digits that make up the password-- eight little numbers that keep Bucky locked away and hold his fate day after day. 

It’s a fucking joke. 

Or, on Steve’s part, it’s a goddamn blessing. 

It just makes Bucky want to scream. It makes him want to lurch up from the table and smash everything he can grab. He wants to ruin the dream that Steve has constructed before his very eyes so that he can realize that it was never a dream to begin with. It was--  _ is--  _ a fucking nightmare that Bucky somehow deluded himself into wanting.

“Hey Steve,” he suddenly calls out and Steve immediately turns to look at him, like Bucky knew he would. Steve’s hand is outstretched on the keypad and with one quick look, Bucky can see that his finger is miraculously hovering over a different number-- a 6 this time. 

Bucky swallows before finding Steve’s eyes. “I--I’ll miss you,” he says, using his voice to drive the attention away from what Steve saw his eyes trained on just seconds ago. 

It does the trick. 

Hearing Bucky’s words make Steve’s face go soft, his eyes practically glistening beneath the lights in the kitchen. Bucky can’t help but admire how… gushy Steve suddenly looks, like he’s the sweetest man-child on the planet rather than some psychotic kidnapper with a fucked up scale of morality. 

“I’ll miss you too, Bucky. You know that,” Steve returns. “I’ll be back before you know it.” With one final smile, Steve finally leaves the house. It has to be hours that Bucky keeps sitting at the table staring at that keypad. 

Eight digits that lock him in and now he has two of them: 1 * * * * * * 6

For the first time in what feels like forever, Bucky doesn’t feel completely useless. Looks like the tables have turned, even if only just slightly. 

* * *

December 30, 2015

* * *

 

Steve, the damn asshole, is smart. 

Bucky has known that for a while, but now, while he glares at the keypad and that-- that  _ fucking  _ door-- he can’t deny that Steve is a goddamn genius. The whole lock situation is a failsafe. There’s a two step process that Steve has implemented on the doors that requires not only the password but  _ also  _ the keys. Without one, the other won’t work and the door stays locked and sealed. 

The keys aren’t the issue considering Steve just tosses them on the counter when he gets home from work or leaves them in the little decor bowl by the door. Because Steve knows that even if Bucky were to snatch them up, it’s not like he could go anywhere. Not without the damn code. The password itself is… tricky but not impossible. Digits can be solved. Eventually. 

The problem though, is Steve himself because as long as Steve is out of the house, Bucky can’t leave. The only key to the doors stays secure on Steve’s keyring so if Steve is gone, so are the damn keys. It doesn’t take Bucky long to realize that if he ever were to escape, it would have to be while Steve is home. And fuck does that make everything just a bit more harder. 

So Bucky waits. And waits. 

Because in the end, it’s not like he has much of a choice. 

* * *

11:59 PM, December 31, 2015

Steve

* * *

 

“...Three!”

“...Two!”

“...One!”

Steve hugs Bucky’s body close as the Ball Drop officially drops on the screen but neither of them are looking at the tv anymore. Bucky is bundled up in Steve’s lap with a warm cup of hot chocolate that the two have been taking turns sipping from but as the announcer screams out “ _ Happy New Year _ !”, Steve plucks the mug out of Bucky’s hands and deposits it onto the small table at the end of the couch. 

Steve glides his fingers through Bucky’s hair, pushing it back, before he looks down into Bucky’s beautiful wide eyes. For a split second, Bucky looks conflicted. Considering they’ve been sitting like this for over an hour as they watched the New Year Celebration from Times Square, and Bucky’s been nice and relaxed in his arms, it doesn’t really make sense that he would look like that, like he’s unsure if he wants to get away. 

Steve sighs and slips his fingers out of Bucky’s hair to use them to frame the brunet’s face, holding him in place just in case Bucky tries to get away. Gently, he cups Bucky’s cheeks and uses his thumbs to trace the sharpness of Bucky’s cheekbones, trying to rub away that weariness. 

“Happy New Year, Bucky,” he whispers. Everything between them feels so gentle that he’s scared even words could disrupt it. He just holds Bucky’s face and uses his legs to keep him close. 

There’s only inches between them and his fingers keep rubbing back and forth against Bucky’s skin, not wanting to stop. He doesn’t, but the longer he keeps looking into Bucky’s face, the harder it gets to not look further down, where he watches Bucky’s lips in his peripheral. 

They’re so close that if Steve were to just tilt his chin, he could capture those lips. He could kiss Bucky and hold him tight and it would all be so good and-- and he wants it so  _ badly  _ but he can’t push himself onto Bucky. He can’t make the first move unless he knows that Bucky wants it, fully and completely.

He’s got all the time in the world though, so even if he doesn’t want to necessarily wait, he can afford to. As long as Bucky’s is there, with him, everything is good. Beyond good. Still, the thought of what  _ could  _ be nags at the back of his skull. Sure he’s holding Bucky, has the young man’s face between his hands and his body braced between Steve’s thighs but they could be doing more.  _ So much more _ . 

The idea of it makes Steve’s pulse thrum in so many emotions that he couldn’t try to name them all even if his damn life depended on it.  

“Happy New Year, Steve,” Bucky whispers back. Bucky’s hands reach up and wrap around Steve’s wrists. He doesn’t pull Steve’s arms away from him but he doesn’t pull him closer either. It’s always that area in between with Bucky; not submitting but not fighting either. It’s that area that confuses Steve, making him not entirely sure what it is what Bucky wants, or better yet, what he needs. 

For now, that’s okay. Bucky’s not going anywhere and neither is he. 

* * *

January 7, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

It’s funny, really, when it all hits Bucky. It’s like a train rams straight into him and he doesn’t know if he wants to double over with laughter at how stupid he is, or if he wants to beat his skull into the wall because of how goddamn  _ stupid  _ he is. 

Because somehow, in his desperate attempts at trying to find a way to escape, it never occurred to him that Steve had already given him everything he needed. Afterall, Steve’s kindness never failed to shine the fuck through so why would it stop now? 

The answer to all of Bucky’s problems is the twelve inch Surface Pro tablet that Steve had given him. The tablet that he was supposed to use to pass time by playing stupid, useless games, is now the very thing that he’s going to use to get out. 

That morning, when Steve wakes up, Bucky somehow manages to get up too and while Steve heads off for the shower, Bucky heads down the stairs and plucks his tablet off it’s charger in the living room and makes a mad dash for the kitchen. Usually he awakens to fresh coffee and breakfast already waiting for him but today he takes charge, turning on Steve’s fancy coffee maker and only spinning away when he sees the dark liquid begin to drip down into the glass pot. 

He pulls out two of the bagels that Steve brought home the day before and moves to warm them up when he hears the faint sound of the water starting up in the bathroom. Steve always takes relatively quick showers but Bucky has no doubt that since he’s actually awake and moving about, Steve will somehow make it double time in the bathroom. 

Naturally he’s right because not even five minutes later, the water is turned off and Bucky hears the bathroom door open and close, and then Steve’s footsteps as he walks toward the bedroom. Bucky stands quietly at the counter with his back towards the stairs as he lathers up the bagels with cream cheese but his ears stay sharp. He tracks Steve’s movements upstairs; can hear when he opens the drawers, and opens the closet door. Bucky gets lost in focusing on Steve that he doesn’t realize he’s still standing at the counter, with a cream cheese covered spoon in one hand (because Steve  _ still  _ refuses to pull out the butter knives) and a bagel in the other, and doesn’t notice that he’s stopped breathing until Steve is suddenly gliding down the stairs and advancing toward him. 

“You’re up early today,” Steve says. Bucky almost jumps at how close his voice is now, how it lingers right at his back. He tries to shift to turn around but suddenly Steve is right there and he’s crowding into Bucky’s space, reaching his large arm out and planting it on the counter, blocking his escape. Bucky looks up and it’s no shock to find Steve is already looking down at him. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Steve presses on. The blond reaches up to shuffle his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Are you feeling alright?”

Bucky tries not to focus on how warm Steve’s hand is, flesh still steamed from the shower, and he has to fight how his eyes threaten to flutter at the sensation. He swallows heavily, nodding. “Y-yeah, I’m fine. I was just… hungry.” 

Steve’s gaze darts to the untouched bagels on the plate, lingering, before he looks back up. “I could have made them for you.”

“I know,” Bucky swallows again. He feels like he’s drowning in the warmth that radiates off of Steve’s skin and the smell of the shampoo that wafts into the air. His hands ache to reach out, to touch, but he keeps them firmly clasped around the bagel and spoon in his hands. “I figured bagels were easy enough that I wouldn’t burn the house down.” Bucky darts a look up at Steve and sees just as an amused grin dances across his face. 

“Fine,” Steve rolls his eyes, playfully. “But tomorrow  _ I  _ make omelettes.” Steve reaches down and grabs one of the bagels from the plate and with his momentary distraction, Bucky manages to slide past him. 

He finds his way to the table with his breakfast in one hand and his coffee in the other. His tablet is already there, ready for his plan to be put into effect. Bucky automatically pushes his food aside and picks the device up, pretending to do whatever it is that Steve thinks he does with it. 

Bucky doesn’t have to wait long. He doesn’t begin to eat until Steve sits down in front of him and when the blond settles, Bucky looks up at him, putting his act into production. 

“Lemme put this away real quick so I don’t mess it up,” he says, pretending to be concerned about the tablet being too close to his food. He gets up from his chair and casually makes a show of discarding the device on the table nearby, the one with the glass bowl that holds the keys and  _ also  _ happens to have a direct angle to the keypad. 

The video is already recording when Bucky places it facing the door. He holds his breath, bites into his cheek and prays that this will work because it’s all he’s got. If Steve finds it… he’s fucked. But if Steve  _ doesn’t  _ find it, Bucky will finally have a chance. 

Bucky spins on his heel making his way back to the table and wastes no time diving into his breakfast, trying real goddamn hard not to look like the paranoid ball of nerves that he really is. 

He manages to keep his cool all the way up until Steve actually gets up from the table once he announces he’s gotta head to work. Bucky bids him goodbye and pretends to be drinking the last remnants of his now cold coffee when really, he watches through the corner of his eye as Steve heads for the door. 

He hears the eight beeps. 

He hears the final goodbye that Steve tosses over his shoulder before he opens the door, then closes it behind him. Then, it’s silence-- blissful, beautiful  _ silence _ .

As soon as Steve disappears past that door, Bucky shoots up from his chair and sprints for the tablet. He has to be quick because he doubts Steve will be checking the security feeds while he drives so he’s gotta be quick. 

The camera on the tablet is still recording when Bucky finally looks down at the device. The time says that it’s been eighteen minutes but all Bucky needs is the last minute or so of footage so he’s quick to rewind it until Steve’s dorito-shaped shoulders come into view. 

And  _ bingo _ . 

In high-def resolution, Bucky watches as Steve’s fingers type away into the keypad. He sees the 1. Then, revealing their true, mysterious forms, the digits 0, 1, 5, 2, 0, 0 emerge, followed with that glorious 6. 

He has it. He  _ fucking  _ has it. 

The smile on his face has to be blinding. From an outsider, he would probably look like a madman, grinning like a fool for no damn reason. But now, he has every reason in the world to smile like that because he’s finally beaten Steve at his own game.

He finally did it.  

With eager fingers, Bucky reaches up and copies the digits, carefully pressing them in one by one and double checking his finger never misses. 

He listens as each beep rings out and when he gets to the last digit, the breath in his lungs freeze as he presses down the 6. 

The light on the keypad shines green. 

Bucky laughs. He keeps laughing as he sinks to his knees, pressing his head against the door once he plants himself on the floor. Bucky clutches the tablet to his chest and cries. They’re big, fat ugly tears that he knows smudges up his face but this time… this time they’re happy tears. 

Bucky deletes the video, picks himself up, and goes to watch tv, sniffling and wiping his face the entire time. 

* * *

January 13, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

The hope that had exploded within him withers away almost completely a week later. 

Because every single plan that he’s constructed, has failed. Miserably so. 

His first thought was that he could do it while Steve slept. That would be the easiest possibility. Just slip out from the bed and tiptoe down the hall, then the stairs, and type the code and slide the key in and open the door and just fucking book it. It would be plain and simple. By the time Steve even woke up, it would be hours later and Bucky would be long the fuck gone. 

But. The first time he tries that, the very  _ second  _ that he tries to slip out from beneath Steve’s arms, Steve shifts at the movement and tightens his hold around Bucky’s waist, pulling him even closer than before. 

The second time he tries it, Steve does the same as before, then, to Bucky’s astonishment, actually wakes up. Bucky swears his heart jumps to his fucking throat when Steve sits up but Bucky stays still and keeps his eyes closed. He feels Steve’s hand run through his hair before Steve leans down and plants a kiss on his temple. 

After that, Bucky doesn’t try a third time. His plan of sneaking off while Steve’s asleep is effectively scratched after that night. 

Hence, where his  _ second  _ plan came into effect. It isn’t as ideal as his first but the only other option that he can think of, is running off while Steve is in the shower. Apart from there only being a five minute time gap (at most), the beeping of the keypad is pretty noticeable if your awake, let alone just a staircase and door away. Steve  _ will  _ hear him and even if Steve was to jump right out of the shower, Bucky doubts he’d run right out of the house naked, but then again, it is Steve and there’s no telling how dramatic he’d be. Apart from that, if Steve  _ were  _ to run out of the house naked, Bucky would be down to maybe a two minute head start and he isn’t entirely confident in his running abilities when put up against Steve’s. Two minutes is a hell of a short time when your racing toward your freedom. 

So Bucky knows that if anything is going to work, he’s going to need to have the jump on Steve. He needs minutes and the possibility of those are so fucking frail. 

It’s no shock that his plans go on the backburner but that doesn’t mean he forgets them. He just needs more time. 

His hope, although dim and nearly nonexistent, burns strong and steady because if he knows one thing, it’s that he will get the fuck out. 

* * *

January 25, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

The irony of it is that it happens when Bucky doesn’t plan for it to. 

It’s a lazy afternoon when Steve comes in, holding a few reusable bags of groceries in one hand and the keys in another. The sight confuses Bucky momentarily because he knows it’s not grocery day and Steve must sense it because he grins, holding the bags up, “I felt like eating steaks tonight. Does that sound good?” 

Bucky scoffs and gets up from the stool he was sitting at as he waited for Steve, and walks around the counter, getting closer to the blond. “I think it would sound good to anyone unless they were vegetarian, Steve.” 

“Well, they would be happy with the potatoes and asparagus that I bought so it’s a win-win.”

“For them? Or for you?” he raises a brow and leans forward to peek into the bags that Steve put on the counter. 

Steve steps close behind him and extends both of his hands out, placing them against the counter tops and caging Bucky in. Steve's gotten himself a habit of doing that now, trapping Bucky between his arms and a hard place. 

“For  _ us _ ,” Steve corrects and bends his head to press his lips against the side of Bucky’s head. He can feel the faint cold that still lingers on Steve’s body from outside and it feels odd feeling that chill dance down his spine. 

The warmth of Steve’s lips lingers, however, and Bucky’s mind automatically hones in on the familiarity. 

He blindly reaches into the bags and pulls out the items. The first thing he grabs is a glass bottle of steak sauce and the next is--

“I got this,” Steve says, pulling the thing right out of his grip. Steve did it so fast that Bucky hadn’t even realized what  _ it  _ was until his eyes settle on the tool in Steve’s hand. It’s a steak fork, with two long metal tines and a black handle and-- and Bucky can only blink at it. It looks dangerous. The metal glints under the kitchen lights and even in Steve’s hand, it’s large. 

It’s also the first real  _ weapon  _ that Bucky has seen in the house. And he knows right then and there, that that's his ticket out. That weapon can give him the advantage over Steve that he needs.

“And here I thought I was gonna cook for you,” Bucky forces out with a faint laugh, dropping his gaze back down onto the bags. He can feel Steve’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, as if he knew exactly what Bucky was thinking, and the heaviness of it all makes Bucky want to shrink in on himself. 

The silence lasts only another second before Steve steps up beside him, helping him unload the rest of the items. It’s no surprise that when Bucky darts a look down at Steve’s hands that the meat fork has magically disappeared. 

“Is that... something you would like to do? Cook for me?” Steve asks, his voice soft. Even though Steve is focused on the items in front of them, Bucky knows he’s watching him through the corner of his eye. 

Bucky keeps his face carefully pensive and shrugs. “I’ve never really known how to. Never needed to before I moved to… here. My mom did all the cooking back home. All I know is pretty much the basics and nothing else.” 

Steve nods. “My mom did the cooking too. When she died I had no choice but to learn on my own. She passed in oh-six so I’ve had a long time to practice.” 

“Is that where the cookbooks come in?” Bucky asks, nodding toward the various ones stacked on the shelf, the same ones that Steve goes through every Sunday to find their meals for the week. 

Steve chuckles but Bucky can see the way his cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. It makes Steve look innocent. Bucky has to bite the inside of his lip.  “Had to learn somehow,” Steve says. 

And learn, Steve has. Bucky watches as Steve moves around the kitchen with the grace that Bucky will never have when dealing with open flames or raw food. It’s almost hypnotic as the blond moves around the room. From the counter, Bucky traces Steve’s actions as he switches from reading printed out emails from Pierce to watching Steve operate. 

It takes no time at all that their dinner gets going. It’s barely five thirty in the afternoon, which is almost an hour and a half before they usually begin their dinner routine but considering the hefty meal they’re about to have, apparently a diversion from their normal schedule is okay for Steve. 

Steve grills the steaks on the stove in a large cast iron skillet that he throws a bunch of seasonings into that make the house smell so mouth watering good yet if you were to ask Bucky what said seasonings were, he’d have no fucking clue. Although he’s pretty damn eager for dinner, the whole time that Steve stands at the stove, Bucky’s eyes stay trained on the steak fork that sits on the counter, right by Steve’s hand. It stays there, gleaming under the lights almost like it  _ wants  _ Bucky to just get up and grab it. 

It would be stupid, but he could try to do it. He would just need to somehow slide it out of Steve’s grasp and just pick it up and-- and threaten Steve with it. He would have to keep a good grip on it because Steve will fight back and he’d try to take it away so Bucky will have to fight  _ twice  _ as hard. 

Fuck, there are so many flaws in this plan. Too many for comfort. But when else is there going to be an opportunity like this? It’s been months and this is the first time he’s spotted something that could actually  _ hurt  _ Steve, something that could make him scared. 

Bucky sits on the edge of the stool, gripping the counter and lets his mind race with the possible outcomes. Nothing looks good, but it all looks better than a future stuck in this house. 

“Food’s ready,” Steve suddenly calls out, turning to look at him. Bucky straightens up under the weight of Steve’s gaze and nods. He may be hungry for food but he’s much more hungrier for his freedom too.

x-x-x-x

Thirty minutes later, Bucky is absentmindedly cutting at his steak and even though his head is up and he’s facing Steve, every few seconds his gaze shifts over the blond’s shoulder and he finds that steak fork again. Somehow, in Steve’s haste to put dinner on the table, he had left the damn meat fork out and now, it’s out in the open and Bucky can’t stop looking at it. It’s just  _ right  _ there. 

Right there for him to take. 

So in the end, that’s what he does. 

His knees have been bobbing up and down rapidly beneath the table and his palms feel incredibly sweaty as he grips his silverware. His heart-- it’s fucking pounding and he’s so damn scared that he’ll somehow fuck this up but he doesn’t have any other options and he knows that he can’t wait anymore. 

This is his fucking chance. 

Bucky reaches out and grips his glass of water, bringing it up to his mouth and gulping it down. He feels parched as hell and he knows that it’s because he’s fucking terrified and his nerves are shot and frayed but emptying his glass gives him the excuse to leave the table, even if only for a few seconds. 

He scooches his chair back and just as he stands up, Steve’s eyes find him. “Thirsty much?” he teases. 

Bucky forces a smile onto his face. “It must be the food,” he says back, moving around the table. He keeps his eyes focused on Steve as he makes his way toward the fridge, keeping his head turned to look over his shoulder as he uses the water dispenser. 

“I used coriander and thyme this time,” Steve keeps talking. “Tried to switch it up a bit from the regular stuff.” 

Bucky hums, pretending he’s listening, or like he gives a flying fuck, when really all he’s concerned about is the steak fork sitting right on the edge of the counter. God it’s just  _ right there _ .  “Well, it’s really good,” he smoothes out, licking his lips that suddenly feel dry. His gaze darts from the back of Steve’s head to the fork and  _ holy hell  _ he thinks his heart his going to explode but he pulls his glass away and as he turns back toward the table, he reaches his arm out and snags the fork with his free hand.

He presses the steak fork against his thigh and carefully maneuvers himself back around the table, keeping it out of sight from Steve. The blond is busy looking down and finishing off his steak so he doesn’t watch as Bucky sits back down. He carefully stuffs the fork beneath his thigh and it pokes into his flesh but he forces himself not to concentrate on it. 

He feels like he’s vibrating in his chair. It feels like his lungs are drawn tight and he’s actually struggling to breath. Now that he has the steak fork, he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. He hadn’t thought this far. He just acted on impulse and now-- now he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. __

Steve is sitting there and it would be so easy to just reach out and jab him in the neck or the arm and-- no, god,  _ no _ . Bucky gets woozy at the thought and it feels like his dinner lurches up in his stomach. He has no clue where that train of thought came from. He isn't psychotic for Christ sakes. He isn't some demented person who fascinates himself with the visions of goddamn stabbing people, of making others bleeding. That's not him. 

It’s not, but… but is that what he’s become? He’s been here for so long, away from all reason and logic, that it isn’t that far fetched to think that maybe he’s lost himself along the way. Bucky doesn’t know what’s worse: that Steve made him like that, or that Bucky himself allowed the change. Then again, it doesn’t really matter whose fault it is. Bucky  _ has  _ changed and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. Not now. Not after everything Steve has done.

He gets lost in the small talk that Steve spews out over the next fifteen minutes. Mainly because he isn’t actually listening to whatever it is that Steve is saying. Bucky just nods his head, hums, or answers with short responses that flow with the conversation. All he can pay attention to is how clear and open Steve’s eyes are, how soft his smile is as Steve continues to look at him. Bucky knows what they have, with each other, or at least what Steve wants for the two of them to have. He fucking knows. He’s not stupid. Bucky can recognize the emotions that burn inside those bright blue eyes. 

And just as sure that he knows what Steve feels, and how he knows that he’s changed, Bucky also knows that he can’t hurt Steve. 

He can’t do it. 

He doesn’t  _ want  _ to do it. 

But he knows he has to. He thinks of Becca and his ma and Nat and Clint and he knows that he has no choice. He had no fucking choice when his freedom got ripped away from him, and he has no choice now, when he has to fight for it back. 

Steve is going on about who-knows-what and the fork is still stabbing into his thigh and his heart is still pounding and Bucky just can’t hold it back anymore. He takes a deep, shaky breath and then, “You only let me call my family once last week,” he blurts out, throwing the words out there. “And the previous three weeks before that.”

Steve’s eyes bore into him and for a few long seconds he doesn’t say anything, as if he’s waiting for Bucky to elaborate further. But when Bucky doesn’t speak, Steve sighs heavily and wipes his hands on the napkin. “Is once not better than no phone calls at all?” he asks, raising his brows. 

“But--”

Steve cuts him off with a firm shake of his head. “There are no ‘buts’ Bucky. I don’t have to let you call them at all, remember?”

“I know,” Bucky huffs, throwing himself back into his chair. The fork stabs deeper into the flesh of his thigh and he has to shift his weight to keep it from being too painful. “But you know that one phone call a week isn’t going to appease them. You know they won’t tolerate it, Steve.”

Steve laughs and for once, it doesn’t sound like the light, gentle sound he usually makes. It sounds harsh. Cold. Bucky doesn’t like it. “Sorry, remind me again when I am supposed to care for what they will or will not tolerate?”

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, spluttering, but Steve doesn’t give him a chance. “Last time I checked, this is our house, Bucky. The people on the outside don’t run it.”

He feels the anger start to bubble up his spine the longer that Steve speaks. Because how  _ dare  _ Steve brush off his family. How dare he act like they don’t mean anything. 

Bucky shakes his head, openly glaring now. “You can pretend all that you want, Steve, but they’re my family whether you like it or not. I’m not standing by your one phone call a week bullshit.”

Steve’s brows raise further onto his forehead. Those blue eyes harden. “Oh, you’re not? Please tell me, Bucky, who exactly makes the decisions here.”

Bucky stays silent. His jaw is set stubbornly and Steve isn’t backing down so neither is he. Silver and blue crash and collide. Bucky’s fists are clenched on top of the table, his fingernails digging into his palms and leaving crescent slivers in their wake. Sure Steve might have all the power here but how controlling can it be if Bucky doesn’t let it control him? And better yet, if  _ he  _ has the weapon here, who exactly holds that power? 

“I do,” he answers. His voice is soft, small in the room, and at odds at how the tension hangs between him and Steve. But Steve hears him. Loud and clear. 

Steve leans back into his chair, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s, and he lets his silverware clatter down onto his plate. The noise is loud and it makes Bucky flinch. “You, what?” Steve asks, his voice so damn strong and solid. 

It’s hard to keep eye contact with Steve but somehow, Bucky manages it, even though his brain screams for him to look away and to subm--

No. 

_ No _ .

Bucky drops his hands down onto his lap and shifts his right hand so that he grips the handle of the fork. He holds it tight, making his knuckles turn white. “I-I make the decisions,” he clarifies. It takes every ounce of strength to say it but he gets it out there, even if his voice wavers. He can feel his willpower begin to crack, knowing what he’s about to do, and it fucking terrifies him. He can’t hurt Steve-- but he has to.  _ He has to.  _

Steve levels a look with him. Seeing Steve’s structured face so blank and empty makes Bucky wish they could go back to an hour ago when Steve looked at him with so much affection, his features open and caring and only for  _ Bucky  _ to receive. 

“And what decisions will that be?” Steve asks. His voice is low now, barely a whisper, and it makes Bucky shudder in his chair. 

Bucky’s chin is wobbling now. Every emotion he has is steadily tearing into his body and it’s starting to wrack through his systems, making him crumble. He can feel the tears building up and slowly they begin to blur his vision, making Steve’s figure hazy at the edges, and he doesn’t want to do this but he has  _ no choice.  _

His hand clenches around the handle. He shakes his head. “Please don’t make me do this,” he all but begs. “Please, Steve.” 

“I’m not doing anything, Buck. You are.”

Bucky clenches his eyes shut as he looks down, away from Steve. Oh how wrong Steve is. His knees are jumping beneath the table and his grip is strong and he knows what he has to do but-- but this is stabbing someone. This is stabbing Steve; someone who has taken care of him after so many months, someone who makes him feel warmth and good, someone who makes Bucky feel  _ wanted _ . 

But this is also the person who is keeping him trapped, the person who stole everything from him. 

He can’t have one side of Steve and not the other. He can’t punish one and reward the other. That’s why he has to do it. 

"You took me away,” Bucky whispers back, still staring down. “You give me a phone call a week to talk to my family but what about my friends?”

“What about them?”

Bucky’s gaze flicks back up. “I want to see them. All of them. My family included.” 

Steve looks away. The blond takes a deep breath. Then another, until slowly, Steve leans forward and presses his hands against the table. “I have tried to make myself as clear as possible,” he starts, tone eerily calm. “I don’t know how else to put it to you so that you can understand, Bucky, and I--” Steve shakes his head, exhaling heavily. “It’s just you and me now, Buck. Let it be just us.” 

And that is why Bucky doesn’t have any choice. 

Bucky picks his head up fully and tries one last time. "Please, Steve." He doesn’t know how much time passes that he just stares, eyes pleading with Steve. 

When Steve does give his answer, his word short and clipped, it’s no surprise. When Steve says no, Bucky feels the word bounce from his chest to his spine. 

"Steve--"

"No,” Steve gives a firm shake of his head. “We're done talking about this."

And Bucky just _can’t_ anymore. His anger grabs him by the throat and before he knows it, he’s scowling and shouting out. "Well I'm not!"

Suddenly Steve lurches up from the table and slams his palms down against the surface. 

Bucky follows suit. Except he doesn’t hit the table with his hands. He curls his fingers tight around the steak fork and violently stabs it into the center of Steve’s hand. 

He hears the prongs dent into the table before he registers Steve’s screams of pain. But when he does, Bucky lurches backward. He can’t believe-- holy shit.  _ Holy. Fucking. Shit. _ His mouth is gaping open in shock as he watches blood begin to pool out of the bottom of Steve’s hand and creep across the table. 

And Steve-- Steve is gritting his teeth, his howls of anguish muffled as his undamaged hand convulses around the handle of the fork impaling him to the table. He touches the handle only to clench his eyes tight and withdraw his hand away. “Fuck!” Steve shouts. Then he shouts it again and again and again, and it’s only when Bucky realizes just how much  _ pain  _ Steve is experiencing that he snaps back into action. 

Bucky scrambles away from the table and runs right for the door. As he sprints past the table with the decor bowl, he snags the keys up. It only takes four more strides until he skids across the wooden floor and slams into the front door, fumbling with the keys and struggling to get it into the keyhole. His hands are shaking so badly that it takes him more than three tries but when he finally gets them in, he briefly closes his eyes in relief before he goes straight for the keypad. 

Bucky forces himself to take one large, shuttering inhalation to calm himself but his fingers still tremble as he finds the first digit. But once he types the first number of the password, the beep seems to echo in the silence of the room. 

Bucky’s finger halts on the keypad. 

A strong, heavy sense of dread drops deep into his stomach. The silence rings in his ears. 

“Bucky…” Steve whispers. It sounds… broken. And wrong. 

He forces himself not to look behind him. Because Bucky knows that if he did, he wouldn’t finish typing in the password. He knows, with every fiber of his being, that if he were to look at Steve’s face, he wouldn’t leave. 

Bucky can’t stay. Not when everyone needs him. 

His fingers fly to type in the rest of the password and behind him, he can hear Steve’s shouts. Although this time he isn’t screaming out profanities. “Bucky! Bucky, please! Stop!” 

But Bucky doesn’t stop. He listens as the rest of the seven beeps ring out with each new digit he types in and when he’s done, he watches as the light on the keypad turns green. He sucks in a sharp breath as he turns the doorknob, throwing it open before he fucking  _ runs _ .

* * *

Steve

* * *

 

His whole world stops when he sees that door open. 

One second he’s staring down at the bloody mess of his hand still nailed to the table, fork handle sticking straight up haphazardly, then the next, he’s ripping it away and his body shoots toward the front door without hesitation. 

Steve goes barreling past the door and even though his feet sting as they go sinking into the snow, he doesn’t fucking care. His eyes lock onto Bucky’s retreating figure and Steve charges forward. 

He can hear his harsh breathing but the sound of his heart pounding is louder, and he can feel it punching against his chest, stealing his breath with each beat. His thoughts are something else. Everything is so, so quiet with only one word being chanted in his skull:  _ Bucky, Bucky, Bucky _ . 

It's being screamed. Actually,  _ Steve’s  _ screaming. He’s yelling Bucky’s name over and over but the brunet doesn’t stop. Bucky keeps running away, further and further away from their world.

He doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast as he does, sprinting past the trees and snow covered shrubbery so quickly that everything blurs, but he’s terrified. The cold air makes his lungs feel like they’re on fire, burning with each breath he greedily gulps down. 

Steve never takes his eyes off of Bucky. The brunet is roughly sixty yards in front of him but with each step Bucky makes, Steve calculates the struggle it takes for him to do so. Like him, Bucky is barefoot. 

But unlike Steve, Bucky hasn’t experienced any heart-pumping exercise since May and he can see how it’s starting to take its toll on the younger man. It’s hard enough running through frigid temperatures, barefoot, but it’s something else entirely when someone has no fucking clue where they’re at or that they’re heading straight for a pond that’s been frozen solid for an entire month. 

Steve sets his jaw and forces his legs to pump harder, faster, until the sixty yards gets cut down to forty, then twenty… ten… five...

“Bucky!” he shouts, stretching his arm out. With one final burst of speed, Steve roars as he launches himself forward. Steve’s arms immediately wrap around Bucky’s waist as he dives forward and once he has a hold of the brunet, he doesn’t dare let go. He doesn’t fucking dare. He hears Bucky gasp loudly at the sudden impact before they go toppling face first into the cold snow. 

Bucky hastily squirms in his hold, trying to pull himself out from beneath Steve as he urgently claws at the ground. It’s useless considering there’s nothing but snow, snow, and more snow, but they’re still in the surrounding woods and it wouldn’t be that much of a shock if Bucky were to pull out a rock or branch from somewhere beneath them, so Steve quickly flips Bucky onto his back and wrestles to subdue his arms. 

“Bucky, stop!”

It’s never that easy though, not with Bucky. 

“Get off of me!” the brunet screeches.

Their arms go flying against one another; Bucky trying to push Steve away and trying to get free again, and Steve trying to get a good grip around Bucky to get him under control, to get him docile. But as the minutes of struggle continue and Bucky keeps thrashing on the floor, kicking and pushing to get out of Steve’s hold. 

“S-Steve, please,” Bucky sobs. One of Bucky’s arms lifts up to push against Steve’s shoulder but Steve knocks it away. It takes less than a second that Bucky’s arm comes back up, shoving harder this time.  

Steve curses beneath his breath because he hasn’t carried any syringes around for a long time and now that he actually needs one, he doesn’t fucking have it. They’re too far for him to drag Bucky back because the struggle could last for hours and the sting in Steve’s feet tells him that unless he wants to keep his toes, they won’t have hours. Bucky is much too stubborn to come easily so Steve knows that as long as Bucky is conscious, Bucky would never stop fighting him.

Steve only has one option. 

He has to steal Bucky’s air. It’s either that or physically strike the brunet and Steve wouldn’t dare hurt Bucky that way, even if he’s beyond desperate. 

Their breathing is harsh in the quiet of their surroundings, so is the sound of Bucky’s cries. The man beneath him is sucking in large lungfuls of air as he sobs and pleads and Steve knows that he has to stop it. 

Without pausing, Steve shifts himself higher and presses his knees into Bucky’s chest. His movement is methodical as he seals one hand over Bucky’s mouth and uses the other to pinch his nose shut. The blood from his wound slides down his fingers and drips onto Bucky’s pale cheek, some even landing in the snow beside him. 

Sheer panic washes over Bucky’s grey eyes and his hands start frantically clawing at Steve’s wrists in a desperate attempt to breathe again. Steve watches Bucky’s face as carefully as he can but his heart is pounding too hard for him to concentrate on anything. He’s too determined to make Bucky unconscious that he presses his knees further into his chest, trying to force as much air as he can, as fast as possible. 

Bucky’s nails cut into him. His shouts are muffled behind Steve’s hand. Bucky is shaking his head trying to dispel Steve’s grip but Steve’s on a mission now, his attention is set and locked. 

Steve shakes his head. “S-Shh. You have to go to sleep, Bucky. Please, just g-go to sleep.” He refuses to look at this for what it is. He keeps telling himself that he has to do this. He has to. Otherwise Bucky will run away. He can’t… Bucky can’t leave him. 

Steve shifts himself even higher and angles more of his knee caps directly over Bucky’s sternum, constricting his lungs. 

Bucky’s muffled screams start to gap in between and Steve can feel the way his chest fluctuates as he desperately fights for air. Steve doesn’t let go. He keeps Bucky’s airways clamped shut and right as he sees Bucky’s eyes start to unfocus, how Bucky’s pupils dilate, a distinct crack emanates from the cage beneath his weight. 

Wide eye terror is suddenly looking up at him. 

Instantly, Steve scrambles off of Bucky. The blood from Steve’s hand is streaked over Bucky’s left cheek but Steve doesn’t look at the smears. No, his own eyes are blown open and he can only stare in shock as Bucky’s mouth opens and closes in desperate gasps that sound so very wrong. 

Then, to Steve’s utter horror, blood sputters past Bucky’s lips, painting them dark, dark red. The droplets splatter onto Bucky's cheek. On Bucky's pale flesh, their blood mingles together. 

Now, it’s _Steve's_  breath that gets stolen away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... I know.


	13. Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much I appreciate all of your kudos and comments. I want to thank all of you who take the time in doing so and you should all know that you each have a very special place in my heart!

January 31, 2016

Steve

* * *

 

_ ….Beep…  _

_                ….Beep…  _

__ _ ….Beep… _

_                                              …..Beep…  _

The phone is cool as it presses against Steve’s cheek. He listens as it rings, once, twice, then a third before the line finally clicks and Sam’s voice is drifting into his ear. 

“Steve?”

His throat feels incredibly tight as he swallows. “Hey, Sam,” he forces out. He hates that he’s wasting his time making this phone call but he has to double check that his appointments are being taken care of properly. Calling in last week had been the shock of the century, according to Sam, and Steve’s waiting on the edge of his teeth for Sam to make another remark-- as if Steve is going for walks in the fucking park rather than what he's actually doing. 

Steve turns to look over his shoulder, toward the bed, letting his eyes scan over Bucky’s unconscious form. The brunet is shirtless, with the sheets grazing his hips, but all Steve can focus on is the rise and fall of his chest and the--

Steve swallows heavily and snaps his attention back to Bucky’s face. His watchful eye is useless considering Bucky is hooked up to numerous monitors that keep track of every little thing concerning him-- his heart rate, his breathing, his blood pressure, his body temp-- yet still, Steve can’t turn away. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the machines but… this is Bucky. This isn’t just some regular patient who he can turn a blind eye to and entrust the nurses to run the show. 

This is  _ his  _ Bucky; his beautiful and broken Bucky.

“I got the email. I’m sorry, man,” Sam’s voice turns softer.  _ Pity _ , Steve realizes. It makes him bite the insides of his cheeks.  _ Hard _ . 

He's been pacing across the bedroom but now Steve steps up to the window and let's his gaze dart around the backyard, desperately finding something to keep his emotions in check. He latches onto the faint snowflakes trickling down, breathing in then out. In, then out. 

“Take all the time you need, Steve, and don’t come back in until your ready. And I mean mentally ready, Steve. Strange and I can split your appointments in the meantime.”

Deep down, Steve knows he’s grateful. No matter how… negatively he feels toward those that he works with, those that consider him a  _ friend _ , he can’t turn a blind eye to how willing they are to jump in and help. Sam especially. It could be different, for better or worse, but now, Steve can only show his gratitude. 

“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.” He can’t, for the life of him, remember saying those words to anyone else but they’re out there and he can only imagine Sam’s pleased gap-toothed smile on the other end of the line. There’s nothing more to say and Steve’s finger moves to disband the call midway through Sam’s goodbye. 

The sudden silence buzzes in his ears. It’s taken a lot to get used to. It makes his skin crawl, makes his heart heavy. He’s used to having the house quiet but he’s used to Bucky being there; talking, laughing, anything that makes the silence go away. Now there’s no sound apart from the soft, delicate intake of breath next to him and the constant beeping of the machine as it goes in time with Bucky’s heart. 

Steve was so goddamn lucky that he filled the house with medical supplies and instruments prior to before their arrangement started. He remembers when he sat in bed, thinking of the worst possible things that could happen to Bucky, and he remembers how careful he was when he snagged everything from the hospital so that he would never have to take Bucky in. Steve had prayed that he would never have to use them, but now, he thanks the heavens above that he brought it all in. That he  _ prepared _ for this. 

Because without it, Bucky would be dead. Bucky would have choked on his own blood and even if Steve had wanted to take him to the hospital, Bucky would have died in the car before they arrived. 

Punctured lungs are always fragile cases; one second of hesitation and a loved one could be gone just as quickly as if one were to snap their fingers. There one moment, then gone the next. 

But with all of Steve’s years at the hospital, and all of the patients he’s seen in both E.R and general practice settings, experience is one thing that he’s got nailed down. He's scary good, according to Sam. 

So when the blood had spluttered past Bucky’s lips and Steve had felt that crack beneath his knees, he hadn’t wasted that second. He gathered Bucky into his arms, held him close, and sprinted back into the house like a madman. Not one moment of hesitance on his behalf because he wouldn’t fucking dare-- not with how Bucky wheezed and how his blood kept flowing past his lips, spluttering against Steve's shirt every time Bucky tried to breathe.  

He almost lost Bucky to a punctured lung, of all fucking things. A _punctured_ _lung_. And it was Steve’s fault. Even when he tries to make everything so _perfect_ and safe with Bucky, he is always missing something too. He is never _careful_ enough. 

Now he knows that he was right, all those months ago. When he first laid his eyes on the brunet, he had seen that vulnerability, that fragileness that made Steve’s hands ache to hold Bucky close and protect him from every sin of the world. It just happens to be that the only thing--  _ person-- _ putting Bucky into danger now, is Bucky himself. He's his own danger. Because if Bucky hadn’t fought back that day he tore the photos, he would have never gotten that concussion. If Bucky hadn’t ran out that door, his life would have never been put into danger. 

And Steve knows that has to take care of that. He has to handle Bucky's problem. 

Steve gently sits on the side of the bed and lets his hand trail over Bucky’s torso. He skims over the soft skin of Bucky’s naval and abdomen, his fingers spread wide to get as much of the brunet’s warm flesh as possible. He keeps touching, exploring, and his lips part as his fingers find the fresh stitches on Bucky’s side. 

Right below the fifth rib on Bucky’s left side, Steve’s stitch work stands out starkly against the white skin, where Steve had forced a tube through Bucky’s side to drain the blood that had built up, the blood that had tried to drown Bucky from the inside of his own body. Steve can tell by the trauma to the area that it will scar. It isn’t large and by no means horrendous, just a sliver of pale pink-white scar tissue, but it will always be there. If one knew where to look, they would see it. 

There had been no complications with the surgery and since then, five days later, Steve has kept Bucky in a drug-induced coma while the young man healed. Steve couldn’t risk Bucky ruining all of his hard work by fighting him… again, because Bucky’s health is in such a fragile state that any little wrong move could send him nose diving into dangerous conditions once more. 

And Steve didn't take that risk. 

Slowly and steadily since his induced coma, Bucky’s vitals have gradually improved, turning more and more normal by healthy standards. Time is of the essence, really, and as soon as Steve is pleased enough with his vitals, Bucky will be up. 

Steve gently lets his palm press against Bucky’s cheek and before he can think otherwise, he leans down and kisses Bucky’s lips. It’s quick, like always, but Steve gets the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry when those lips stay frozen, unmoving. He’s kissed Bucky before but even in his sleep, Bucky twitches or shifts just the slightest bit that told Steve he was alive and well. 

But now… 

Steve desperately leans forward again and finds Bucky’s lips. His hands go to both sides of Bucky’s face and his fingers dig into the soft flesh, holding Bucky in place because even though he’s out cold, Steve can’t chase away the feeling that somehow, Bucky will just disappear if he doesn’t keep holding on. 

So that’s exactly what he does. Even when he pulls back, opens his eyes and finds tears obscuring his vision, Steve doesn’t let go. He may sob and sob, and lose hours of time, but his fingers stay curled against Bucky’s neck with his thumb pressed against the staccato of Bucky’s pulse. Alive, but not well. 

* * *

February 5, 2016

Steve

* * *

 

Nights are the only moments that Steve doesn’t feel like he’s losing his mind.

The days are long; the hours drift by in stretches of minutes that are too quiet for any human being to withstand. It’s rare that Steve does anything but pace back and forth in the bedroom, listening as the beeping of Bucky’s machine continues.  _ Beep, beep, beep, beep…  _ and on and on, from the very minute he rises to the minute he goes to bed. 

Days plague him but the nights make him feel like he can pretend that Bucky’s simply sleeping, because medically induced coma or not, Bucky has always been a presence at his side in their bed, warm and pliant to Steve’s touch. Now is no different, and apart from the steady beeping of Bucky’s monitor that’s rhythm has imbedded itself into Steve’s brain, Bucky’s faint inhales and exhales are the very things that keep Steve’s sanity from snapping in half. 

He’s lived through this nightmare for two weeks. 

Two weeks of that bone gnawing silence. Two weeks of crying into Bucky’s hair, holding the brunet’s body so gently but still so tightly against his own side. Two weeks of the cold, cruel reminder of what his life was like before Bucky. 

Steve exhales deeply at the thought and angles his chin down to look at the top of Bucky’s head. He’s resting up against the headboard and the bedside lamp is still on (he keeps it on all night long now, because every half hour or so, his body jerks awake and his eyes immediately trickle to Bucky, making sure his chest is still moving) so he has enough light to see, his gaze sweeping up and down Bucky’s body. 

It’s just past two in the morning but Steve’s sleep patterns have been too sporadic for any set schedule to stick so he’s wide awake. Absentmindedly, for what’s been a while now, the fingers of his left hand have been palpating his right one. The pad of his thumb sweeps back and forth against the bottom of his right palm, then again, and again as he feels the dents there. Even after two weeks, they still feel fresh. 

Steve presses his thumb against the wounds and the pressure makes him wince, makes him clench down hard on his jaw. The scabs have already began to heal over but the wound was too severe to not scar. That, and the fact that it had been hours until he had actually properly treated it when the incident occurred, not paying a single second of attention to his own self until Bucky’s surgery and aftercare had been taken care of. 

His hand wasn’t broken though. Miracuously, he hadn’t really suffered any damage. There was no loss of feeling across his skin and he could still move every finger without struggling so the nerve and tendon damage was minimal to none. Physically, he’s fine but mentally… he’s struggling. 

There’s no ignoring the fact that Bucky had acted out. Although ‘acting out’ is something a child does, something you reprimand a  _ child  _ for doing. Bucky is no child and what he did was something Steve had never imagined, let alone predicted. Stabbing someone takes a very particular mindframe to do, let alone stab them and then run away. 

It’s as if some higher power knew Bucky had done wrong and decided to punish him as a result, using Steve as the vessel to inflict said punishment. Do good, receive good has always been a strong mantra within every person to exist so naturally, do bad, receive  _ bad  _ must apply too. It’s karma in the cruelest form and even though it kills Steve to think it, perhaps this is what Bucky  _ deserved  _ for what he had done. 

And if Bucky deserved a punctured lung, then Steve must have deserved being stabbed through the hand. 

He has spent days and nights wracking his brain on what he could have possibly done to make Bucky flip like that. He remembers Bucky getting mad about the phone calls but Steve was being generous giving him anything at all, so Bucky had no  _ right  _ to complain. Steve understands that Bucky must miss his family but it wasn’t as if the brunet was living with them to begin with, so he doesn’t have a clue why Bucky must see them as severely as he states now. And Bucky’s friends… friends are replaceable, worth a dime a dozen, and Bucky doesn’t  _ need  _ them. Not like he needs Steve. 

Yet, just as much as Bucky needs him, Steve has become  _ careless _ . Otherwise, Bucky would have never gotten the jump on him. Bucky must have figured out the password because Steve let him do so. He can’t understand how it happened exactly, considering he thought he was being careful, but obviously he hadn’t been careful enough. 

Then it clicks. 

He deserved his injury because he had become careless with Bucky. His injury was his _wake up_ _call_. It was time for him to open up his goddamn eyes again and understand just how much was at stake. Any little wrong move, and their heaven would come crashing down around them and Steve… he _knows_ that he wouldn’t be able to survive if that were to happen, if Bucky were to truly get up and disappear. He can barely function as he is now, with Bucky unconscious at his side. 

There is no denying that they’ve both fucked up. Bucky has committed his sin just as Steve has committed his own, and they have both been punished because of it. They’ve both suffered. They’ve both  _ bled _ . 

And if they were to ever forget, they’ll have their scars to remind them of their mistakes. 

Steve presses against the dents in his hand again, letting that dull throb of pain echo throughout his body. His eyes are on Bucky, flickering from the gentle movement of his naked chest to his closed eyes and everywhere in between. He lingers on the dark railroad of stitches on Bucky’s side as his fingers still rub against the holes in his palm. They have each marked one another’s bodies and the realization makes the softest, barely there smile creep onto his face. Their scars will remind them of each other, of what they have been through, and no one will ever take that away. 

He gently presses his wounded palm to Bucky’s lips. He’s kissed Bucky’s scar before and now, Bucky’s kissed Steve’s scar too. 

Tomorrow he’ll wake up Bucky; tomorrow he’ll see those eyes and hear that voice and he’ll be able to breathe again. Bucky will be awake and Steve can finally be whole once more. 

* * *

 February 6, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

When his eyes flutter open, he gets a strong sense of deja vu. 

Bucky’s laying on the bed and he’s surrounded by dark taupe walls that had once been foreign but are now so achingly familiar. He recognizes those walls better than anything, better than the walls at his own apartment and for a strong minute, he tries to remember what his apartment looked like but it’s all fuzzy and blank, nothing coming to him sharp enough that he can visualize it. 

But  _ these  _ walls… he knows that right next to the door there’s a painting that Steve inherited from his mom’s mom, and another one of a forest that Steve painted in college that rests in the space near the windows, a picture of Steve and his mom, Sarah just one step from the doorway, then there’s a three sectioned mirror that hangs above the dresser-- the one that Bucky always watches Steve through as the man gets ready for work. He knows where everything is because he  _ watched  _ Steve put everything up.

It’s Steve’s room but it’s also  _ his  _ room too. It’s  _ theirs _ . 

Bucky’s gaze shifts to the right and his hand blindly reaches for-- 

His hand hits cold sheets and an empty space and for the briefest of seconds, he feels a heavy ball of panic settle into his gut. He bunches the fabric of the blanket in his hand and he tries to pick up his head to look even harder but he feels a sudden tightness in his chest and it hits him just how wavered his breathing is. 

He’s scared. 

He's fucking  _ terrified _ because there’s something  _ wrong  _ and the more he tries to get his breathing under control, the more the tightness feels like it’s grabbing him by the throat and restricting his airway every time he tries to breathe in. 

Bucky’s eyes are wide and his fingers claw into the mattress and he tries to breathe, to concentrate, but he’s so fucking  _ scared _ . His mouth opens and closes, “S-S--”

Suddenly, Bucky feels hands slide onto his cheeks and before he can so much as close his eyes at the sudden warmth, Steve moves into his view. 

“Bucky,” Steve says his name so gently that it makes him want to bury himself into Steve’s strong arms and stay that way until the tightness fades away into nothingness. “Bucky, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he murmurs and Bucky doesn’t realize that his own hands have found their way onto Steve’s arms and he’s pulling the blond closer and closer until Steve presses a kiss against his forehead. Steve’s so close now. “It’s okay, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes close at the proximity, savoring the feeling of Steve being so near. Even though he still struggles to breathe, it feels easier to, just with Steve being there and holding him,  _ touching  _ him. The pain may lessen but it’s still there. 

And it’s strong enough that Bucky can’t ignore it. 

He opens his eyes and peaks down at his chest between the space of him and Steve. He can’t see anything below his sternum but it makes him realize two things. First, he’s shirtless and secondly, Steve’s chest isn’t pressing down into him. Even though the blond is close, hovering directly above him, Steve’s forearms are pressed against the mattress and he isn’t letting their chests press together like he normally would. 

Bucky  _ aches  _ for it. He wants that feeling of Steve’s weight on him, to remind him that he isn’t alone and that he’s secure, and he wants that warmth--  _ Steve’s  _ warmth. He needs it. 

He isn’t aware that his arms have snaked around onto Steve’s back, trying to pull Steve flush against him, until Steve pulls back and shakes his head. “No, Bucky. You’re hurt.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. He tries to find answers in Steve’s face, but all he can see is the dark shadows that linger beneath Steve’s eyes, something fragile screaming in those blue iris’. He’s never seen Steve look like this before and seeing him now, like that, makes Bucky focus harder because something must have happened for Steve to be so affected. For him to crumble. And the more that Bucky concentrates, the more he understands that his aching body isn’t because of his longing of Steve’s touch, but something that shoots out from the inside, making him hurt more than what a mere touch can heal. Like Steve said, Bucky  _ is  _ hurt. 

He’s hurting bad. 

“S-Steve,” he breathes out. It’s nothing more than his lips moving. His voice is barely a breeze, nonexistent, but the pain suddenly slams into him again and he winces. His hand goes to his left side, where the pain seems to be emanating from, but before he can press down, Steve’s fingers wrap around his wrist and pulls Bucky’s hand away. 

“No, Bucky, you can’t touch it. It has to heal.” 

Bucky whimpers and his eyes scrunch up. “It h-hurts,” he tries to say but again, it’s just his lips moving and the faintest sound escaping. The whispers that do manage to sweep through are nothing more than a croak. “S-so m-m-uch.”

“I know,” Steve says, nodding his head slowly and closing his eyes like he too is in pain. “I know, Bucky.” Steve’s hands are still pressed against Bucky’s face, and his thumb lazily soothes back and forth against Bucky’s jaw. 

“What happened?”

Slowly, Steve’s eyes open back up and his blue gaze finds his. Bucky has always thought Steve’s eyes were beautiful, even in the beginning. The blue looked like the sky and the ocean and they turned dark without light and they shifted into crystal clear ice when the sunlight streaked across Steve’s face. It’s a mesmerizing sight, and now, being so close, the beauty is only amplified. It feels like his breath is getting stolen because of those eyes, like he’s getting pulled further and further beneath the shades and he’s  _ drowning _ . 

“You…” Steve licks at his lips and Bucky’s eyes follow the movement. “You don’t remember?” 

What he remembers is the sting of coolness in his lungs, the harsh cold against his feet. He remembers dripping blood, the red spilling onto the table and the floor, the feel of the weapon in his hand. He remembers his panic, his overwhelming fear as it coursed through his veins. He remembers Steve’s shouts of pain and looking over his shoulder and feeling his heart pound hard in his ribcage. But after that…

Bucky shakes his head.

“You ran into a tree. One of the branches impaled your side.” Steve exhales heavily and he diverts his gaze, only for it to return to Bucky’s face a second later. “The impact broke one of your ribs, fractured two others, and one of the pieces managed to puncture your lung.”

His lips part in shock. Because he doesn’t remember that and the injuries that Steve describes sound so  _ severe _ . Life threatening. Something people die from. His fingers twitch to go to his wound but Steve’s hand is a vice around him. Bucky tries to look instead but Steve holds his chin. 

“You got hurt because you tried to run away,” Steve’s eyes don’t waiver as he stares down at him. “You almost died, Bucky. Do you understand how close you were to killing yourself?” 

Hearing those words makes the tightness in his chest spread throughout the rest of his body, the overwhelming amount of dread making him feel so cold again. He knows the pain in his body is nothing compared to what it must have felt like to have a goddamn tree impale his side, let alone the impact of breaking his bones. It must have been pure hell. 

And yet, he survived.  _ Steve  _ saved him. 

Bucky feels the tears start to build. Steve is still holding his chin so he can’t look away but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to look away. He looks up into Steve’s eyes and he sees everything that Steve wants him to see-- the emotions. The fear. The love. 

Even after Bucky stabbed him. Because that’s how  _ good  _ Steve is. Bucky was always so quick to see the bad but there’s just too much goodness to be overlooked. It’s like the good trumps everything else, making it easy for Bucky to ignore the wrong that Steve has done. To him. 

Steve is so,  _ so  _ good. He didn’t deserve what Bucky did to him-- Bucky made him bleed, stabbed him in the hand. Then Bucky had ran and he knew that it had broken Steve’s spirit, he  _ knew  _ when he heard Steve’s wrecked voice call out to him, Bucky’s own name so fragile on Steve’s lips. Seeing Bucky run must have hurt Steve more than anything else ever could and knowing that Bucky purposefully did that, it makes Bucky’s chest and soul tight with guilt. 

"That's what happens when I'm not there to protect you,” Steve whispers and the gentleness of his voice finally breaks the dam keeping Bucky’s tears at bay. Because Steve is  _ right _ . 

He closes his eyes, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve uses his fingers to brush the tears away, letting his thumb sweep high on Bucky’s cheeks as he softly shushes him. “It’s okay. As long as I’m here, I can protect you, Bucky. I can take care of you, you just have to let me. Okay?”

Slowly, Bucky opens his eyes. His vision is blurred slightly as he looks up at Steve. Steve makes it seem so simple with the way he talks, how his words just seem to make  _ sense _ . Because after so long, Steve has been taking care of him. Steve makes him better when he isn’t doing so hot, whether it be a stuffy nose or a fucking punctured lung. Steve is  _ always  _ there. He’s always ready for him. No matter how badly Bucky treats him like shit, no matter how much Bucky resists. Steve stays by Bucky’s side no matter what, with his gentle hands and his soft smiles and the overwhelming way he makes Bucky’s insides feel. Steve is there. 

So maybe it’s time for Bucky to stand by Steve’s side too, because if he didn’t have Steve, he would have nothing and having Steve is a whole lot better than being alone. 

Shakily, Bucky nods. His hands slide up to where Steve’s fingers press into his flesh, and he grasps at them, holding onto Steve just as strongly as Steve is holding onto him. “Okay,” he whispers.

When Steve smiles down at him, Bucky tries to smile back. It takes a lot of effort, but he manages.

* * *

February 21, 2016

( _ Three weeks later...) _

Steve

* * *

 

“Deep breath in,” Steve says. “Then out.”  He has a stethoscope pressed to Bucky’s chest and he listens carefully to what he hears come into the eartips. The breathe that goes through Bucky’s lungs is shaky but that’s to be expected. The most important thing is that the breath sounds clean, with no rattling sounds of fluid trapped inside the delicate organs because fluid could lead to an infection and an infection could--

_ No _ , Steve refuses to think about that. All that’s important is that those lungs are getting better. It’s a slow process but it’s process nonetheless and that’s all that matters.  

“Again,” he instructs and Bucky’s chest rises with the air he inhales, then dips as he exhales, Steve’s left hand palpating each movement. They’ve done this routine for weeks now and it’s natural how close they sit together on the couch, with the stethoscope against Bucky’s skin and Bucky’s grey iris’ looking up at him, sharp and focused like a hawk, watching Steve’s every move.

With the left side done, Steve moves the metal to the other side of Bucky’s torso but suddenly the brunet flinches and Steve immediately pulls away. He feels panic shoot through his bloodstream and he frantically seeks out Bucky’s face. “What’s wrong?”

A small chuckle leaves Bucky’s lips and he dips his chin, shaking his head back and forth slightly. “Nothing. It’s just cold.”

Steve doesn’t think. He just slides his hand onto Bucky’s bare skin, presses his palm against the cold flesh and rubs. “Better?” he grins, raising a brow. He looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze, expecting the younger man to nod or laugh or something, but the look that Bucky has on his face makes the grin slowly fall off of Steve’s lips. 

Bucky’s own lips are parted and his eyes are trained on Steve, hooded yet focused. Steve can feel Bucky’s pulse hammering beneath his fingertips and palm, nowhere near the relaxed pace that it was moments prior.  

“Buck?”

Bucky blinks. His tongue darts out to lick against his lips, his teeth catching briefly on his bottom one, and Steve stares, transfixed, as Bucky nods. “Y-yeah. I’m good.” 

Steve watches a moment more, making sure that Bucky truly is as fine as he says he is. And when Bucky takes a deep breath, Steve moves the stethoscope back against his chest. He listens carefully to the rhythmic inhale, then exhale, with his hand splayed wide and his eyes carefully focused on the task at hand. 

Or at least he tries to. 

They sit there for a short moment, not saying anything because Steve is still listening and Bucky knows he isn’t supposed to talk during the process but suddenly the brunet leans away. Steve looks at him instantly.

Bucky looks pensive, his brows adorably furrowed. “What did you do with the branch?” he asks. It’s so out of the blue that Steve frowns, not quite sure what Bucky’s asking about. 

"The branch?”

Bucky nods. “The tree branch that got me. What did you do with it?” For further clarification, or maybe just absentmindedly, Bucky’s hand drifts up to the bandage against his rib, where that scar hides beneath.

_ Oh _ . 

Steve thinks that it’s foolish of him that he forgot about the story he fed Bucky. It’s no shock that Bucky’s memory of the Incident hasn’t corrected itself but Steve doubts that it ever will. He’s seen it in case after case of emotional and physical trauma patients when their memories get affected, skewered up into nothing but fragmented segments that don’t always add up. Getting a rib cage crushed and being bold enough to stab someone and run definitely sounds like emotional and physical trauma so it isn’t something that Steve frets about too much.

_ But _ . There are problems, however, that come from that type of trauma especially if the trauma impacts an individual’s memory. Bucky can become susceptible to an entire range of psychological problems-- from something so small of incidents of increased anxiety levels to something much, much bigger and much more potent like PTSD. So far Bucky’s been fine but Steve won’t pretend that he hasn’t been watching the younger man’s every move, every little facial expression he gives and every little twitch in his sleep. Steve has been watching closer now than ever before and at any slight possibility of things going south, he’ll be ready. God knows he will. He just hopes (and prays) that he will never have to. 

Steve twists to put his stethoscope in its kit on the coffee table, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I took it out before I brought you back inside,” he says. Easily. Almost flippant. “It’s somewhere outside.” 

Bucky hums and leans flush against the couch cushion, looking completely at ease. “Shame. It would’ve been nice to burn it. Or, like, roast some marshmallows on it,” he says with a gentle laugh. 

Steve’s eyes widen. His lips part as he stares, not believing his ears. “It almost killed you, Buck. You do realize that, right?”

Bucky shrugs. He goddamn shrugs and if that doesn’t raise Steve’s blood pressure and anxiety levels, he doesn’t know what else ever would. “But it didn’t.”

“But it  _ could’ve _ .”

“But it  _ didn’t _ ,” Bucky says pointedly, raising his brows and everything. This man will  _ surely  _ be the death of Steve.  

He only scoffs, shaking his head. “Because I saved you.”

“Yes. You did.”

Steve pauses, his mouth still hanging open because he had been ready to keep arguing his point. He hadn’t expected Bucky to  _ agree  _ with him. He expected the opposite. Bucky’s tone had been teasing more than anything but Steve wouldn’t put it past him to suddenly flip like he had done in the past, calm one moment then erratic the next. Steve had thought Bucky was going to fight, go off about how he was forced into being here, same old same old. But he  _ didn’t _ . Bucky brought up none of it and actually fucking  _ agreed  _ with him. It’s a big win in his books, if he were keeping track-- which he is. Very much so. 

Slowly, Steve nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, his eyes locked on Bucky’s. “Yeah, I did.” 

A silent moment passes where they just watch each other. The air feels thick, electric almost, and Steve feels the pulse in his hands that urge him to reach forward and gather Bucky in his arms. He wants to touch and caress and hold that angel close but he can’t. Not yet. He won’t make Bucky get scared. If anything were to happen, it would have to be because of Bucky. It’s him that controls this, not Steve. 

Then, Bucky leans forward, and there’s a smile on his lips. “So is it a no to the marshmallows?”

_ Dear lord _ , Steve is completely and utterly in love with the man in front of him. So much that it makes his heart hurt. 

Steve smiles back, shaking his head slowly. “And ruin your dinner?” he quips back. Bucky snorts and they fall back into the easy routine of their day. The subject of the ‘branch’, thankfully, isn’t brought up again. Much to Steve’s relief.

* * *

February 23, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

Steve hands him the usual handful of printed out emails that normally Bucky divulges himself into the second Steve gets home but today, he hesitates, seeing how Steve’s jaw is clenched tight and those blue eyes have a hard edge that shines through. Bucky can see the frustration clouding Steve’s face before the blond says or does a single thing. 

He almost doesn’t say anything. Truly, Bucky doesn’t want to but then he figures that of all the times that Steve has been there for him, Bucky can at least do it this one time, even if the idea makes him shift from foot to foot, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, carefully. 

For the briefest of seconds, Steve holds his gaze, strictly nodding his head. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” His voice sounds fake. Too strained. After so many months together in close proximity, Bucky has gotten fairly good at identifying the various tones that Steve’s voice takes on. He does that no-nonsense, signature ‘Dad’ voice when he tells Bucky to do certain things, like eating his goddamn vegetables or to not run up the stairs too quickly otherwise his lungs will give out. There’s been more than one occasion when Steve uses his ‘hard’ voice, usually making Bucky’s spine straighten and the hairs on his arm sticking straight up-- his body’s own personal warning. Or even the voice that makes Bucky nervous because he can hear the fragileness behind Steve’s words, like when Bucky got hurt. Then, Steve has that soft, fragile voice that he uses to whisper into Bucky’s ear, or when his hands brush against Bucky’s skin, always so gentle. Bucky likes that tone best. There’s no comparison, really. 

But this one. This one isn’t quite a warning but it also isn’t wounded. It’s somewhere in between and Bucky doesn’t know what else to do. Steve looks  _ nervous _ , Bucky realizes. Apprehensive. Like he’s expecting something bad. 

Bucky can’t find the will to push forward. He can feel his heart rate begin to pick up, the slight uptake in his breathing. His palms feel sweaty suddenly and he has to swallow to get the tightness out of his throat. If Steve is nervous, then Bucky has every reason to be nervous too.  Instead of saying anything more, he just watches as Steve turns away from him and toward the fridge. Bucky moves and perches himself on one of the stools, focusing on the papers in his hands. 

He barely manages to get through the second paper when Steve starts to talk. “I already told Pierce that you would think about it. I didn’t want to flat out say no but I’ll inform him by the end of the week.” Steve’s leaning against the counter near the stove and he has a water bottle in his hand but it isn’t uncapped and it’s still full. It seems that Steve must have been watching him this entire time instead. 

For a long moment, Bucky’s confused. But then, slowly, it begins to settle in on what Steve  _ could  _ be talking about. 

Bucky tears his gaze away and frantically turns back into the emails. He skims over the words so quickly that he doesn’t even read what they’re saying-- he’s just looking for two words. He flips one page, then another, and then there it is.  _ Book tour. _

“The book tour,” he says aloud, not really meaning to. He’s still staring down in elated shock, happiness erupting inside of him for a split second until Steve moves in his peripherals. 

“I’ll let him know that you’ll decline the tour.” 

Bucky raises his head, staring wide-eyed at Steve. “ _Decline_ _the tour_?” he echoes. Surely he can’t be hearing Steve correctly. 

“Yes,” Steve answers. Short and clipped. But oh, there’s that tone again. So  _ this  _ is what Steve was worried about. Makes sense. Perfect sense, actually. 

“But you can’t say no. I can’t decline this tour, Steve.”

Steve tears his eyes away, looking anywhere but at Bucky. He pushes himself away from the counter, leaving the water bottle behind, and he starts loosening his tie as he paces. Bucky silently tracks his every move, waiting.  “I’m fairly sure that I can answer anyway that I please, Buck. Besides, if you want to decline this tour, then you can, and Pierce and whoever else can’t hold it against you.”

“But I  _ want  _ to,” Bucky urges, feeling that all-too-familiar wave of panic begin to creep up his spine. He doesn’t want to fight… but he can’t just-- Steve can’t take this from him too. “I have to, Steve.”

Finally, Steve’s gaze meets his again. “And leave the house?” he shoots back, his voice firm despite the emotion that still brews in his blue eyes. “Who knows what could happen out there. You’re safer here. You’re still healing, Bucky.” 

“It wouldn’t start until August. I’ll be healed by then--”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re missing the point entirely. It’s too risky-- I can’t-- it would be best if we just tell Pierce that you aren’t interested in doing it. There are too many unknown variables and I’m not going to risk your safety so if you want to be mad, then that’s fine. I’d rather you be pissed at me and  _ alive  _ than you being happy and dead.”

Steve is… making sense. It’s a bit of a far reach but knowing Steve as well as Bucky does, his worries make perfect sense. Bucky wishes that they wouldn’t, but they do, and he can only take a deep, steadying breath as tries to placate with the man in front of him. 

“I understand, Steve. I do. Really. But this is the last book and I want to do this. I’ve been waiting for this for years--  _ people  _ have been waiting--”

“People aren’t important,” Steve cuts him off. “ _ You _ are. And out there, you aren’t safe when you’re alone. Or do you not remember how you almost died?”

“Then come with me!” 

It’s out there. For a second, Bucky stops, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said. It doesn’t shock him that he’s said those words because offering Steve the chance to come is the only way that Steve would ever even consider it, even though the chance of actually letting Bucky go were slim to none. So the words don’t surprise him. No, what makes Bucky pause is that he  _ means  _ them. Steve is right-- a book tour would mean that he would be gone for weeks, let alone a few months, and that’s so much time in so many different places with so many different people that anything could happen. He could get hurt, like Steve said. He’s still healing, like Steve said. Steve’s a doctor so he knows better than Bucky does; Steve knows how to keep him healthy and safe when no one else ever has. No one’s ever made him not feel so alone, except for Steve. 

He wants Steve to go with him. 

Bucky takes a deep breath before saying the words again, making sure Steve can see and hear his sincerity. “Come with me, Steve.” 

He wishes he didn’t want to say the words but he does. He wishes that he could still harbor that hate and anger at Steve that he had weeks ago, but it has faded knowing that Steve’s saved his life. It’s hard to despise someone when they literally held his life in their hands. 

Steve’s staring at him just as shocked. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say. “You want me to go with you?”

Without looking away, Bucky nods. “Yeah.” He can see the wheels in Steve’s head spinning a million miles a second, like he’s going through every scenario. He can see the hesitation. He can see how Steve wants to say no, but he can also see how Steve thinks about the possibility of them traveling across the country. Just them. Together. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Steve--”

“I said, I’ll think about it.” 

It’s not a no. It’s not entirely a yes either but it’s better than nothing so Bucky will take it. 

* * *

February 26, 2016

Steve

* * *

 

Bucky’s standing at the counter prepping a cup of tea and barely casting a glance at the front door opening when Steve walks through with his arms full of grocery bags.  

“I would ask you if you need my help but you’d just tell me no,” Bucky says, taking a sip of his drink and looking at Steve as if he’s waiting for him to surprise him. 

Which Steve most certainly isn’t going to do. He only grins, shaking his head. “And you would be correct.” Ever since the Incident, Steve doesn’t let Bucky anywhere near the grocery bags. It doesn’t matter that there are no weapons or anything that Bucky could use against him-- the visual of Bucky sorting through the bags is enough to make Steve’s pulse race. So he’s more than happy to take full control, moving his way around the brunet. “Maybe next time.”

Bucky hums, taking another sip. “Funny, considering you always say that.”

“Do I?” Steve plays along, shooting Bucky a confused look that the brunet definitely catches. Bucky only snorts into his mug and Steve begins putting everything in its rightful place. All but one bag in particular. 

When he plops the cardboard tub on the counter, he watches Bucky expectantly, and has a smile on his face because he’s been anticipating this moment since he caught sight of it at the grocery store. As Steve expected, Bucky’s jaw unhinges itself. 

“Ice cream?” he asks, dumbfounded, and he’s already discarding his tea and rushing forward. He has to press himself into Steve’s side to get close enough to run his fingertips through the frost on the carton. 

Steve can’t look away from the happiness on Bucky’s face. “I figured you needed to celebrate since you’ve been healing so well.” 

“I can’t even remember the last time I had actual sugar.”

Steve scoffs. “You were drinking tea literally less than a minute ago and you and I both know you put at least two spoonfulls of sugar before you let it anywhere near you.”

Bucky shakes his head, looking so childlike as he pulls the tub closer to himself, digging his elbow in Steve’s side to keep him away from taking it from him. “This is different and you and I both know it,” he says, turning Steve’s own words against him. 

“ _ Oh,”  _ Steve exaggerates. “Right.”

Bucky drums his fingers against the lid and narrows his eyes. “So, what, you think you can buy me over with ice cream?” he says, raising a brow. 

And that is what he’s doing, isn’t it? He knows it is. Steve knows that deep down he hasn’t gotten past the guilt that’s eaten him alive, knowing that he’s lied to Bucky, knowing that he’s the reason why Bucky almost died. He bought this ice cream knowing how Bucky would react to it, knowing the brunet would smile and be happy. 

He wouldn’t say he bought the ice cream for Bucky, more as he bought it so that Bucky would be happy which would then transfer onto Steve himself. Bucky would be happy because of Steve; he would smile because of Steve. That’s why Steve got the ice cream. Bucky can believe whatever he wants as long as it works.

“Obviously,” Steve teases, and there’s that smile. Bucky practically glows with it on his face. “But seriously, Buck, this is a treat. You’ve been doing good so I figured I could at least get your favorite.”

“And how would you know what my favorite is?”

Steve looks down from the tub, to Bucky. The truth is that he had looked through Bucky’s fridge that night he brought him home. He had went through everything, really, seeing what brands Bucky bought, what he filled his cabinets with. Most of it wasn’t food that Bucky should be eating but then again, he was still quite young and most young people had no care or concern what they put into their bodies. That behavior has changed since Steve had started to take care of him but once he saw the ice cream in the store and remembered seeing that exact brand in Bucky’s freezer, he knew he could pass it up. But Steve doesn’t think he could say all of that to Bucky. He doesn’t want to. He would hate to have to bring up that night knowing it’s a toss up of how Bucky could react. 

Instead, he says, “You mentioned it before. I remembered.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and that’s always the sign knowing when Bucky’s thinking hard about something. “Really? I don’t remember telling you that.”

“Well,” Steve meets his gaze and feeling bold at their proximity, he reaches up to tuck a long strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “It just goes to show that I remember everything you say, Buck. Even the small things. I pay attention, y’know.” 

A look passes over Bucky’s face. It’s something complicated and Bucky’s lip goes between his teeth again as he dips his head. Steve’s vision goes straight to it. It would be so easy to use his hand and pull Bucky’s face to his, meeting those lips with his own. He wants it, god knows how badly he does. He wants Bucky fully, everything about the brunet becoming  _ his _ . His hand had dropped onto Bucky’s shoulder but it would take nothing to pull Bucky flush against him, molding them together and blending their heat. It would be simple. 

Just as Steve’s fingers curve against Bucky’s shoulder, Bucky nods and then he’s pulling the lid off the carton. “Can you hand me a spoon?”

Steve blinks. He shifts his gaze to the carton where Bucky’s fingers are pressed against the sides. What he wouldn’t give for those fingers to be pressed against his own skin. He has to swallow away the tightness in his throat, refusing to acknowledge that he’s getting jealous of fucking ice cream. Bucky’s not even looking at him for Christ sakes. 

“Before dinner?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully constructed. 

Finally, Bucky looks up. “Are you going to stop me?” 

Looking into Bucky’s eyes, Steve knows that he wants to.  _ But _ . This is Bucky’s favorite and he’s been so good and he’s healing-- and if Bucky wants this, then he can have it. 

“No,” he answers, then Steve turns and grabs a spoon from the drawer and hands it over to Bucky. The younger man doesn’t hesitate taking it from him and jabbing it into the ice cream. Even eagerly, Bucky shoves the spoon into his mouth and his eyes slide shut, groaning as his lips wrap around the silver. Steve’s gut clenches  _ tight _ . The sound that left Bucky’s mouth makes Steve feel like he’s being lit up from the inside and it leaves him breathless, staring with his lips parted softly. Bucky must know what he’s doing to Steve. Him standing there, with his eyes closed and those sinful little sounds leaving his throat, makes Steve picture something else entirely. Like them in their bedroom, naked, and their lips twisted together. Or them on the couch with Bucky’s hot skin against his, and those lips pressing wet, open-mouthed licks against his chest. That groan leaving Bucky’s mouth when Steve enters him, slow and gentle, with Bucky’s body tight around him. 

Steve shifts his stance as he feels the front of his pants strain against him. It’s then that Bucky opens his eyes. 

“That good?” Steve asks, doing his best to mask how his voice wavers. 

Bucky hastily nods his head. “So good,” he smiles and goes in for another spoon full. “Why haven’t you brought this sooner?” 

Steve shrugs. His thoughts are so far away from ice cream that it’s ridiculous hard having to stay focused on what Bucky’s saying. “Didn’t… think it was that life changing.” He’s uncomfortable in his trousers. His hands ache to relieve the pressure but he forces himself to calm down, thinking of anything and everything unpleasant that he can. 

“Well, not everyone can live off of protein shakes and kale,” Bucky says around his mouth full of ice cream. He’s full on devouring the carton now.  

Steve scoffs, pretending to be hurt. “Hey, that stuff’s good.” 

“ _ Please _ , you wouldn’t know what good is if it hit you in the face, Steve. Here,” Bucky scoops up an insane spoonful of chocolate, fudge, and who-knows-what-else and holds it out for Steve to take. “Taste it.” 

It’s pure desperation when the first thing Steve thinks of is the fact that him and Bucky will have shared a spoon if he takes that bite. They’ve shared drinks plenty of times but for some odd reason, a spoon feels more personal-- more intimate since the whole thing has been inside Bucky’s mouth and will go back  _ into  _ Bucky’s mouth when he takes another bite. It’s erotic as hell and this is  _ not  _ helping his pants situation. Fucking hell. 

He lifts up his hand to take the spoon from Bucky but Bucky moves his hand, shaking his head. “Nope. I get to feed it to you or else you won’t take the entire bite.”

Bucky’s trying to kill him. That’s what this is, surely. Bucky knows the effect he has on Steve and he must be trying his damn well best to throw Steve into cardiac arrest. Despite every natural instinct of self preservation, one look at those grey eyes looking up at him and Steve’s mouth opens. Bucky pushes the spoon forward and he does indeed make sure Steve takes the entire bite. 

Steve’s face scrunches up at the sudden taste, feeling his taste buds shoot through the roof at the overwhelming amount of sugar that he knows he just let Bucky put into his mouth. The spoon is out of his mouth less than a second later. 

“Well?” Bucky looks at him expectantly. 

“It’s cold. And way too sweet.” 

Bucky snorts and moves to scoop another mouthful out of the carton. “It’s  _ delicious _ ,” he corrects and then he’s shoving that spoon into his own mouth again and Steve-- Steve’s vision goes white for a few seconds. 

“It’s  _ junk  _ food,” he shoots back. Bucky sends him a flat look even as he has the spoon in his mouth. Steve raises his brows. “Just for that, I’m making you eat double servings of vegetables.” 

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Bucky says and when he has another bite of ice cream, he groans out loud again. And hearing that second noise leave Bucky’s mouth, Steve knows with every fiber of his being that Bucky is going to be the death of him. At least he’d die a happy man. A really, really, really happy man. 

Apart from his too tight pants. 

But that can be fixed. Eventually.

* * *

February 29, 2016

Bucky

* * *

 

Bucky watches himself through the mirror, staring at his reflection. He’s fresh from the shower so his skin is heated and flushed from the temperature, and droplets slip down his neck and chest, but he isn’t paying attention to any of it. Instead, his gaze is trained onto the scar on his ribs, where his fingers are gently skimming against the surface and he can feel the faint sensation prickle against his skin. 

It’s his first time actually seeing it. His injury has been bandaged up ever since he woke up and when Steve changes it, Bucky always diverts his eyes because he just didn’t want to deal with it, still not entirely sure how to react or if he should even react at all. But earlier Steve had instructed him to let the injury breathe properly and since it was healed enough, Steve had directed him to shower without the bandages. Up until this point, however, Bucky hasn’t paid it a single second of attention. Mainly because he was scared of what he would see. 

But now, he sees it. Fully. And if anything, he’s more mesmerized than horrified.

It’s nothing, really. Just a pale pink line that curves with his rib, no longer than his ring finger. Now that he sees it, he just can’t look away. It’s crazy to think that a fucking tree branch had been sticking out of him at one point. He tries to envision the image and although he knows it must have been something straight out of a horror movie, he also can’t help but roll his eyes at how ridiculous he must have looked.  _ A goddamn tree branch.  _

Tentatively, Bucky presses the pads of his fingers against the scar and he sucks in a breath through his teeth as the pain flares up his side. He gets a flash of white snow, and splattering red, and he hears the distinct  _ crunch  _ echo through his skull and Bucky rears his hand back as if he’s been burned. He hadn’t realized his breathing had turned erratic until he’s hit with the harshness of sound in the silence of the bathroom, his ears tingling from it. Bucky pulls his eyes away from his reflection and when he reaches for the brush, he ignores how his hands shake. 

He forces himself to calm down. It’s stupid how worked up he’s being because it’s just a scar and it isn’t even that noticable, but the tightness in his chest makes him concentrate on nothing but taking a deep breath, holding it, then letting it go. Just like Steve taught him. 

Brushing his hair at least gives him something else to do, something to focus on-- which also happens to be something that Steve taught him-- so Bucky watches his movements through the mirror carefully, making sure his gaze doesn’t dip back down to that mark on his ribs. 

Which is why when he feels the wet strands of his hair slap against his shoulders, he frowns. His hair has never been this long before. It goes past his shoulders now, nowhere near how he usually kept it. He doesn’t hate it but he’s never noticed it as strongly as he does then, and Bucky just-- he doesn’t want it like that. It’s not him. And if there’s anything that he wants more than anything, it’s to have himself looking back through the mirror. He wants to look at himself and see  _ him _ \-- his eyes, his body, his hair. 

So, without another thought, Bucky throws on his t-shirt, spins on his heel and glides out of the bathroom. He watches each step that he takes as he goes down the stairs and halfway through he grins to himself because he can hear Steve’s voice in his head telling him to be careful like Steve always does. When he enters the living room, Steve picks his head up from the tablet and watches as Bucky strides across the room until he plops himself down on the floor, right between Steve’s knees. 

He looks up into Steve’s wide eyes, and although he doesn’t quite know what emotion is there, it’s something heavy. Something  _ heated  _ that makes warmth blossom in his gut, and his precarious spot nestled between Steve’s knees doesn’t exactly help the situation. He can’t even begin to count the number of times that his thoughts have drifted into dangerous territory regarding the blond and now is one of those times. It’s too easy to picture this as something romantic, something so much more than what they have. All he would have to do is place his hands on Steve’s knees to pick himself up, reach out and pull Steve’s waistband down and-- and have Steve. And somehow, Bucky doesn’t think Steve would stop him. If anything, Steve would want him to and that… that is a dangerous realization. 

“Can you cut my hair?” he forces out before his thoughts get too far gone. His knees are already pressed into Steve’s shins but Steve still slides his legs out further, touching more and more. 

For a long moment, Steve doesn’t say anything. His blue eyes are looking down at Bucky between his legs and Bucky’s breath hitches. Never has anyone looked at him so openly before, with so much  _ want _ . It makes him feel a shiver shot down his spine, makes his toes curl and his pulse pound.

Then, Steve slowly nods his head. “Yeah,” he swallows, and Bucky watches the movement of his throat, watches how those lips form to his voice. “I can do that.” 

Twenty minutes later, Steve is tousling the shorter strands of Bucky’s hair, his nails gently scraping against Bucky’s scalp. Bucky’s eyelids have been fluttering the entire time because who could honestly resist the pull of someone messing with their hair, especially when Steve takes his sweet time with the whole process, making sure everything is perfect like always. 

The scissors had been put aside a few minutes ago but the thought of them stays lingering in the back of Bucky’s mind, knowing he could turn around and grasp them in his hand, threaten Steve with them. But then what would have happened? They would have fought. Bucky could have gotten hurt, or maybe Steve, or maybe both of them and what good would that do either of them? So every time he had heard the sharp  _ snip snip snip _ of the scissors, he bit into his cheek, and stayed rooted between Steve’s knees, his back braced between Steve’s legs. Now he focuses on Steve’s fingers brushing through his hair, the gentleness behind the touch-- how  _ good  _ it feels. It’s easy to forget about those scissors when those fingers work their magic.

“Okay, I think I’m done?” the blond breaks the silence. Steve’s hands fall from Bucky’s hair to rest on his shoulders. “Turn around and let me check the front.” 

When Bucky twists around and Steve looks down at him, Steve’s hands are already moving up to make sure everything is even. He combs it all back, tucking the strands behind Bucky’s ears, and shifts his palms so that they rest on Bucky’s cheeks. Bucky has no choice but to look up, straight at him. Those blue eyes peer straight through his soul. 

“I-Is it okay?” he asks, feeling nervous suddenly. That look is on Steve’s face again, the one that makes Bucky feel warm all over. He reaches up to smooth a hand down his hair now, feeling how the strands curve just beneath his jaw. It feels familiar, giving him something to latch onto. “You didn’t, like, fuck it up, did you?” he tries to laugh but it comes out breathy more than anything. 

He sobers up immediately when Steve’s thumb moves and begins to trace against his bottom lip. This… this is new. Bucky sits frozen, eyes wide, not knowing what to do or say. There have been times when the tension between them had felt similar to this, like the air was charged every time their skin touched, getting heavier and heavier the longer they stayed in proximity. But this… this is so much  _ more _ . Bucky feels the flush to his cheeks, how his body heats up at the sudden change in Steve’s behavior because he knows what Steve wants. He recognizes that look in Steve’s eye, the desire and want shining so bright in there.

And Bucky  _ likes  _ it. He feels himself preen under that look, sitting up straighter so that he presses further into Steve’s hands. 

“So perfect,” Steve whispers, his thumb still tracing Bucky’s lips. The breath softly fans against Bucky’s face and something so strong and urgent clenches around Bucky’s heart, making him suddenly aware of how much he wants this too. Steve takes care of him, makes him feel so  _ good _ , and this is something that Steve can do too, a need that Steve can handle. Bucky’s body feels like it’s about to jump out of his skin. Everything feels intense, so alive, and Bucky  _ throbs  _ for him. He wants so much, too much, and he brings up his hands to rest over Steve’s. 

“Steve…” he breathes out. Their eyes lock and there’s a split second where there’s nothing but silence between them. Words go unsaid but they can both feel what the other wants, what the other needs. 

Bucky’s gaze dips down onto Steve’s lips and nothing holds him back as he leans forward.. 

He wants and he wants, and he finally  _ takes _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I must be killing you guys with these cliff hangers :)
> 
>  
> 
> On a side note, I'm trying to become more active on my Tumblr that I started a while back. So if you have anything you wanna ask, or if you just wanna say a quick hello, that'll be cool and I'd love to hear from you all. Just search up my author name and you'll find me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I decided to make a Spotify playlist for this fic of all the songs that I listen to while I write. If anyone wants to check it out, that'd be great! It's called: Brooklyn Syndrome
> 
> Enjoy!


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